


On the Current

by cincoflex



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-28 07:22:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex/pseuds/cincoflex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you have to go out the front door to start an adventure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**On the Current**

Mayfair Orrins Lillyroot knows she’s nobody’s fool.

Her father, Parson Lillyroot, is a hobbit of girth and has more than enough to deal with in managing the fishdock at Needlehole, and the added gravity of being a widower with a spinster daughter makes his life along the Water difficult enough; the wholly unfair fact that is that his Mayfair is a better fisherman than any of the young bucks who take their coracles and punts and rafts out each day. Her father’s constant trial is to live with the polite faces and behind-the-back commentary of the community even as she returns each day with full nets and a strong will of her own.

 _If only your mother had lived_ is Parson’s daily unspoken lament, and even though the two of them manage nicely, her father keeps harping that it’s nearly time to have her presented for courtship. That would have been her mother’s moment of glory, Mayfair knows, fussing over her and eventually negotiating a marriage that would have given all parties some satisfaction. 

But no, her mother is now twenty-five years dead and gone and Mayfair is supremely uninterested in parties or prospects of any sort, much to her father’s despair.

&&&

She knows she’s in trouble. Even after years of being on The Water, of knowing the river’s currents and moods day in and out, Mayfair knows right now that she’s out of her depth, literally and metaphorically. The rush is a roar to her ears and the dizzying speed is driving the breath from her. Under her feet the boat is rocking madly, and she’s clinging to the gunnels so tightly she can feel her fingernails digging into the soft wood.

She’s driving past the rushes of the bog and into darker water, driven by a surge of storm current and the cold wind blowing hard from out of Ered Luin.

Dodging low-hanging branches, Mayfair tries to study the banks but the light is fading in the late-afternoon storm, and the dark trees are rushing by at a dizzying rate. She knows she’s gone at least three leagues further than her normal fishing grounds and at this rate the walk back to the docks will take her a day or two if she can make it to one side of the river or another.

 _Bother the weather,_ she grumbles. There’s no-one to blame for her current dilemma but herself and her pride. Mayfair knows perfectly well that she chose to go out despite the red sky that morning, and that her father probably won’t miss her until after dinner, when it will be too late for anyone to go searching. He’ll worry of course, but she’s been caught out overnight before, so the real fear won’t set in until tomorrow.

A branch whips across her face and the shocking sting of it makes her gasp. She claws at her reddening cheek and mutters a curse, then feels the boat begin to spin, bobbling over a stretch that feels shallower and dangerously swift. Mayfair hunkers low, blinking rain out of her vision and reaches down for the rope and anchor. The water here is moving too fast for dropping it straight in, but if she can hook a point ashore, the drag of the current should bring her close enough to wade to land . . .

Coming up fast downstream she sees a long trunk of a black tree reaching out over the water. It’s big and dark, and Mayfair scrambles to grip the anchor, knowing full well she’ll have only one shot at hooking it as she passes. The other end of the rope is already secure to the bow, and Mayfair hopes the knot will hold even as she locks her gaze on the tree. She throws, and even as the anchor leaves her hand she feels a sense of frustration; the heavy metal hook sails up and barely touches the tree, gouging a long gash in it before one point precariously digs in. The boat shoots under the trunk and Mayfair braces herself for the sudden jerk as the line feeds out. 

What she doesn’t expect is for the boat to hit the hidden rock just under the surface and tip her out into the cold, dark water.

*** *** *** 

He should be done with this sort of discomfort. Tramping out in the wet while there is a perfectly good fire blazing away back in his home makes this all the more irritating, and Bilbo glowers as he holds the lantern higher. _Adventures are all well and good when one has company, he thinks. On one’s own, they lack appeal._

Although it’s hard to consider looking for a missing water butt as an adventure, in all honesty. Bilbo heard it go tumbling off in the wind and knows perfectly well that while he could wait until morning to retrieve it, the chances of actually _finding_ it are better right now, before it’s smashed to pieces or drifts off on The Water to parts unknown. It wouldn’t be difficult to replace but Baggins are frugal by nature.

Bilbo sighs and looks towards the right, where the natural curve of the hill runs down to meet the edge of The Water. Everything is dark and seems menacing at the moment, from the claws of the tree branches overhead with the wind whistling through them to the driving rain adding its hiss to the unpleasantness. Underfoot the mud and leaves squishes unpleasantly between his toes, and Bilbo knows he’ll have to have to scrub his feet before he steps inside again. Fortunately he’ll be going up the hidden tunnel and given the distance a lot of the mud will dry and drop off before then, he thinks.

He hopes, anyway.

Bag End has a few secrets and one of them is the tunnel whose door is cunningly hidden at the back of the pantry; the tunnel that leads down through the hill and to The Water. Bilbo discovered it as a child and has found it more than useful since, particularly when relatives come calling. It’s one thing to say you’re not at home to visitors, and another when everyone can vouch they saw you fishing somewhere else at the time.

The little door here at the bottom is carefully shielded from view by a boulder and a pair of gorse bushes, and Bilbo keeps a few fishing poles just on the inside, along with a net. He wishes he’d left an oilskin coat there now as he pulls his own soaked jacket closer and peers into the gloom. Nothing. He moves closer to the water’s edge, aware that it’s higher than normal and falling in would be a very bad situation indeed, especially since nobody is around.

Most folk should be celebrating a good harvest out on the green at Hobbiton, but in this weather it’s far more likely that they’re all holed up in the Green Dragon tavern and surrounding buildings, singing and drinking as they wait out the storm. Bilbo doesn’t mind; he’s quite content with his own company and spends a fair amount of time compiling notes about his Adventure. His home is warm and comfortable and if it wasn’t for the blasted water butt deciding to roll off in the night Bilbo would be utterly satisfied.

He hears a noise and tenses up, waiting very still in the dark.  
It comes again, and this time it’s so small, so weak that Bilbo feels foolish; whatever is making that noise isn’t a threat, but at the same time memories of the moon-eyed fiend deep in the Goblin’s lair sends a shudder through him. Bilbo thinks of the Ring, safe on the mantle behind the jar of pipe-weed. 

Or is it?

“Hallo?” he calls, wishing for a moment that he’d thought of bringing his walking staff with him. Or Sting.

For a moment there is no reply, and then the little sound comes again, a cross between a cough and a gurgle. Bilbo holds out the lantern, and the light of the candle glitters on the fast-moving water a few feet in front of him. He sees branches swept up along the bank, along with the usual debris of leaves and straw, and a hand . . .

Bilbo starts, the lantern wobbling. He freezes, his mind rushing through the terrible scenario before him, and he dreads looking again even as he knows he must. It might well be someone he knew, and a Baggins would never shirk the solemn duty of care for the dead, especially for someone of the Shire.

With care he leans down, holding the light out further, and his gaze makes out the sodden figure of a dark-haired woman half in and half out of the rushing water. Her cheek is pressed to the dirt, and Bilbo can see that her shoulders are moving; that she’s alive, but barely. That galvanizes him and he sets the lamp down, stepping closer and wading shin deep into the water to help roll the rest of her up on shore. The water is drearily cold and he tries not to shiver as he slips his hands into it, catching her hips and lifting.

Heavy of course. Not the woman, but the sodden linen of her dress, soaked through and probably mud-coated as well. She’s a Hobbit, clearly, and Bilbo manages to swing the rest of her body out of the water and onto the wet leaves on the shore before wading out again and gritting his teeth against the cold. Bending close, he peers into her face, wiping away some of the mud. “Hey? Can you hear me? You’re going to be all right now . . .”

A groan rises up from the dark-haired woman, and she coughs up water, the trickle of it spilling down her dainty chin, washing it clean. Her eyes open and Bilbo sees that not only are they out of focus, but they’re leaf-green and fringed with great dark lashes. Definitely not a local then, where blonde is more common and most eyes are blue or brown, Bilbo realizes. He drops to one knee and slips an arm around her back, helping her to sit up. “Slowly now; you’ve had quite a night of it.”

She coughs again and groans, one hand going up to her left temple, where a great bruise is showing under the mud and clinging leaves. “M-my boat.”

Bilbo risks a quick look around but sees nothing that looks like a boat or even the remains of a boat. He shakes his head. “Sorry, it’s just you, Miss.”

*** *** ***

Mayfair isn’t sure if she’s having a nightmare or not. She dimly remembers falling into The Water and being washed a good distance over rocks, then managing to claw her way to shore, but right now—if now IS now-- images are woozy and everything is fading in and out. Someone is helping her up, telling her encouraging things but she wants to lie down and sleep. She’s wet and every step is hard, but the voice is promising her warmth and somewhere deep inside she knows she must keep going.

She leans against a doorjamb and even the dim candlelight makes her eyes hurt so she keeps them closed even as hands start tugging at her sleeve. The voice quietly tells her to take off her wet things, that there is a towel and after that a warm shirt to climb into. Mayfair follows the directions, groaning, and lets the voice lead her a little further along. A few glimpses here and there let her know she’s indoors, and then oh then the glorious softness of a bed. Mayfair burrows under a thick linen coverlet, curling up underneath like a little hedgehog. The quiet and the warmth envelop her and she sleeps.

She moves though dreams as if she’s on the river again, and images go by—her father, and Minnow the old crooked cat who lives under the docks, and further along, the ghostly outline of someone tall on the far side of The Water, watching her go by with a nod. Mayfair knows she’s dreaming but at the same time the feelings of frustration and fear still buffet her, and she shifts uneasily in her sleep, clinging to the pillow.

It’s very dim when she wakes, and by the rattle of rain against the window it’s clear that the storm hasn’t let up yet. Blearily she opens her eyes and takes the room in around her. Low, dark wood beams rounding overhead; a sturdy Hole then, well-established. Mayfair shifts her gaze, noting the polished dresser with ornate doily laid precisely in the center, the heavy beveled looking glass over it, and the cunning little washstand carved of willow with its ceramic basin and pitcher.

 _Posh,_ she thinks. Certainly a bit more well-to-do than she and her father with their little burrow home on the backside of the bank. This is not what she expected, and Mayfair tenses, wondering who her benefactor is. She looks down at the coverlet, noting the careful vine embroidery that curves in fancy curlicues and loops all around it, little satin leaves decorating it and thinks, _little old woman. Widow probably, not hurting for money._

She tries to remember anyone from the night before, but all Mayfair can bring back are helping hands and a soothing voice, pitched low. At the same time, a rush of aches floods her and she groans as they make themselves known. Carefully Mayfair takes inventory: sore right elbow, several good bruises along her right hip and a cut across her nose that stings. The shirt she’s wearing is a man’s and big on her; it holds a nice scent to it. Widow must have a son or a nephew, Mayfair thinks, smiling. That would explain the voice last night. She pushes back the coverlet and tries to climb out but even that simple action makes her moan a bit.

The door creaks. Mayfair turns her head quickly—too quickly—and through the throbs watches as a man peeks in at her. He seems surprised to find her awake, and they share a long moment of simply looking at each other in the dim morning light.

 _He’s got a pleasant face,_ Mayfair thinks, _and a good nose._ His expression looks kind, if a little weathered and she figures he must be the widow’s son, the one whose shirt she’s wearing now. Thick curly hair the color of shallows sand, dimpled chin and a sturdy build to his frame as well. He clears his throat and when he speaks, Mayfair recognizes his voice as the one from the night before.

“How are you doing?”

“Much better, thanks to you,” Mayfair croaks, and adds, “and your mother.”

He blinks a little and makes a few awkward steps into the room. “I was just making some tea; shall I bring you some, and muffins perhaps?”

“Tea . . .” Mayfair murmurs longingly, thinking of the hot goodness of it. “That would be _lovely,_ please.”

He smiles at that, and when he does, she feels a little thump in her chest because his expression is so open and sweet. But it’s also touched with a hint of sadness too, and Mayfair senses he’s had hard times in his past. She smiles back.

“I’ll bring it in directly then,” he replies and slips back out again. Mayfair rises and makes her way to the little water closet on one side of the room, and glancing at her face in the looking glass over the basin. The cut across her nose makes her look scruffy, her temple hurts and her hair is a fright, but other than that she seems to be all right. By the time she limps out and back towards the bed she hears footsteps approaching once more. It takes some strength to climb back in, but once she’s settled the door opens and the most amazing sight of a tray loaded with a full breakfast. There are kippers and toast and marmalade and soft-boiled eggs and cheese and sausages and the scent of all of it makes her stomach growl.

Mayfair blushes but her host gives a chuckle and brings the tray closer, settling it next to her on the mattress. He cocks his head and holds a hand out to her. “My name is Bilbo Baggins, and this is my home.”

She blinks a little, since she’s heard the name before, even up as far as Needlehole, and not always in an approving way. Mayfair tries to remember what was said about him, but is interrupted by his sigh. “ _And_ I can see you’ve heard of me.”

“You’re the one who fought Orcs,” Mayfair finds herself saying. “And a dragon.”

“Sort of,” he tells her and begins to pour her a mug of tea. “And you are?”

“Oh, sorry. My name’s Mayfair Orrins Lillyroot, of the Needlehole Lillyroots.” She fights the urge to bob her head the way her father’s taught her when speaking to one’s betters.

“Needlehole? Oh you’ve drifted a long way then, Miss. A very long way.”


	2. Chapter 2

Bilbo has learned over time to present a calm face to unexpected situations, and although this particular one isn’t dangerous, he knows staying serene is the best way to make matters easier. The girl in his bed— _actually that’s a bit of a dangerous thought right there_ he admits to himself—seems to be all right, and certainly a lot healthier than she’d looked the night before, even with the cut on her upturned nose and bruise on her temple.

She’s definitely not from this side of the Shire, though, not with that sable-colored hair. It’s as curly as his own, but longer, and in need of a good scrub. That brings his thoughts back on track and he clears his throat. “When you’re feeling up to it, I’ve got a proper bath down the hall, and some clean clothes for you, although I afraid they’re trousers, since I haven’t any dresses . . .”

“Oh I’ve worn trousers before,” Mayfair assures him, adding, “thank you.”

“You have?” he asks before he can stop himself, and gives a little wince because it sounds judgmental even to his own ears.

“Mostly on days when I bilge out the boat or dry dock and repair it,” comes her reply between bites of toast. “Father doesn’t like it, but it’s got to be done sometimes and he’s not strong enough to do it anymore. Oh this is _lovely_ toast.”

It sends a little note of pride though him because Bilbo knows he does a good breakfast. Part of it is training; his mother always insisted on doing things right, and part of it is a natural tendency to be a good host. 

He still is, despite having had that aspect severely tested in the past.

“Thank you. I’m partial to the heel myself,” he tells her. “Anyway, you’re a long way from home, and with this weather and your injuries, I think it would be best if you stayed on a few days, until to get your feet under you again.”

The girl considers this as she munches a sausage and gives a reluctant nod. “I don’t want to be a bother, though, Mr. Baggins,” she tells him softly. “You’ve been very kind already.”

He makes an impatient shake with his head and gives her a half-smile; she’s a pretty thing and Bilbo has no doubt _some_ one is worrying about her at this very moment. “It’s not a bother, Miss Lillyroot. I’ll just send a bird to Needlehole and let your people know you’re all right, shall I?”

Her stricken expression makes Bilbo pause. “But that’s expensive . . .”

“Tug the miller’s boy owes me a favor, so it won’t cost anything,” Bilbo assures her quickly. It’s true, actually, but the relief in the girl’s face is very telling, and Bilbo adds the note to his thoughts. _Poor, but proud. I’ll have to tread carefully here._ “Besides, it will give me a chance to check on my potato patch and see if the skies are going to clear up. Now just let me know who to put on the note, and you rest up while I step out for a bit, eh?”

Reluctantly she tells him, “Parson Lillyroot, north bank of the Water, Needlehole. All you need say is I’m all right and I’ll be walking home shortly, though; he’ll understand. And thank you.”

Bilbo gives her a quick smile and rises. “Fair enough. The bathroom is just down the hall behind us; the door is open so you’ll spot it right off. Fire’s on and the towels and clothes are laid out there for you.”

Her face goes pink and Miss Lillyroot bites her lips, giving another little nod so he nods back and turns, padding his way out, pleased with himself. Bilbo dons an oilskin cloak, pulls one of the umbrellas from the stand near the door and then heads out into the wet gloom, trying hard not to think about her taking a bath in his tub.

It’s not easy to do though; while Bilbo may be middle-aged he’s still capable of appreciating a pretty girl, and Mayfair Lillyroot certainly fits the bill. However he puts aside thoughts of her and looks out beyond the rim of the umbrella, not at all encouraged by the sight of dark, dirty clouds still thickly covering the sky. The wagon ruts in the road are filled with water and small lakes have sprung up in the low-lying pastures around Bag End. Bilbo grits his teeth and makes his way down the winding path, noting that nobody seems to have made it back from the festival yet, and probably won’t for a while. 

He ends up in the dove cot far down at the foot of Bagshot Row and chooses a bright-eyed messenger in one of the little holes marked ‘Needlehole’. After composing a note— _To Parson LillyRoot, North bank of the Water, Needlehole: Miss Mayfair safe in Hobbiton; will return soon_ —Bilbo attaches it to one of the bird’s legs and sets the dove free, pleased to see it head in the right direction despite the gusts of wind. 

That done, he takes a moment to clean out part of the dovecot and put grain out for the other birds who barely peep over their wings at him as they curl up back to sleep. Bilbo feels like doing the same, and reluctantly steps out into the rain again, avoiding the biggest puddles but still getting his feet wet up to the shins. By the time he passes the potato patch, he’s ready to rinse his legs off and settle in next to the fireplace, preferably with a nice mug of wine to take the chill off.

Back inside the front door he uses the watering can to get most of the mud off his feet and dries his soles on the mat, glad to be out of the wet. The unexpectedly sweet sound of singing carries through the rooms, and Bilbo cocks his head, listening as his guest sings a verse of _The Daisy and the Rose_ in a low voice, the melody true. It sends another pang through him, and Bilbo hums under his breath, unable to resist joining in. His mother used to sing this when she was putting laundry on the line in high summer, and the sound of it on the breeze brings back memories long unvisited.

Good ones.

He makes noise, just to alert her though, moving to the fireplace and adding wood to the flames and poking the embers to bring the blaze up, feeling a warmth that has nothing to do with the fire at all.

&&&

The clothes are big, but Mayfair rolls up the sleeves and adjusts the braces, feeling pleased to be clean again. The shirt carries the faint scent of its owner; something she doesn’t mind at all. She spends some time brushing her hair and debates about braiding it. On the boat, loose hair can be dangerous, but at the moment she figures it’s a minor issue and leaves it hanging over her shoulders, black and thick. Her mother’s hair, her father reminds her, a legacy of River Folk blood.

She tidies the bathroom and steps out, listening for sounds of her host, and heads in the direction of creaking, going right, past other doors and rooms until she reaches a beautiful parlor made all the more welcoming by a cheery fire and a few lamps. In the rocking chair, her host, Mr. Bilbo looks up from a book and gives her a smile.

“Better?”

“Much, thank you,” Mayfair admits, coming in shyly, like a cat in a strange room. She sees family portraits on the walls in gilded frames; stacks of books and vellum on end tables and ledges; wicker chests and leather boxes amid the horsehair furniture. It’s all very fancy and the room holds the faint smell of lemon oil. The fire beckons though, hissing a bit as wind down the chimney hits it. She reaches out her hands and savors the radiating heat. “Thank you for the clothes,” Mayfair remembers to say politely. “They’re very nice.”

“I wasn’t entirely sure of your, um, size, so I took a chance,” he tells her with a nervous smile. “There were a few things of my mother’s, but they would have been miles too big. She was sincerely stout, in the end.”

Mayfair giggles before she can catch herself. “In the _end_ , end or at the end of her days?”

She’s caught him off-guard, and for a moment his eyes widen— _they’re so blue,_ Mayfair marvels—then he breaks into a delighted laugh, clearly amused at the double meaning and not offended in the least, thank goodness.

“Both,” he blurts out, adding, “She’d be the first to admit it too. Mother always _did_ have a good sense of humor.”

Mayfair nods, feeling a little embarrassed by her remark, and concentrates on absorbing the warmth of the fire. “I’m glad. I didn’t mean to say that. It’s a bad trait I have, just saying what’s on my mind. Gets me in a lot of trouble sometimes.”

To her surprise, he nods, still smiling. “It’s all right. No offense taken, believe me. How’s your head?”

“Sore. I’m lucky to be alive thanks to you.”

He shrugs, and Mayfair feels a rush of liking, simple and sweet at the gesture. “I’m glad to have been able to help.”

They talk easily after that, sharing who they are and who they know the way folk in the Shire have done for ages. Families come forth, and when Mayfair learns Mr. Bilbo’s mother was a Took, she’s impressed. Tooks are far more prominent than Lillyroots when it comes down to it. 

She asks him what he’s reading and he blushes. 

“Just something I wrote a while back,” Mr. Bilbo mumbles, and she’s delighted both because he’s so accomplished and humble about it. 

“A writer! That’s marvelous,” Mayfair tells him earnestly. “Papa and I have three books ourselves, and sometimes I borrow the ones left at the Inn—at least the ones written in Westron. There’s one written in Khuzdûl that some of the dwarves passing through take down and look at, but I can’t make head or tail of it. Oh, and one in Sindarin too, but it’s damaged and there are only bits and pieces of it left. What’s it about?”

Unlike her father, Mr. Bilbo doesn’t have any problem following her questions and he gives a shy smile. “Just a bit of poetry; doggerel really, and barely worth the parchment.”

She doesn’t push, but smiles to let him know she disagrees. Writing takes a certain amount of pluck, and Mayfair appreciates people who follow through on things like that. Instead, she cocks her head wistfully. “May I hear a bit? Just a part you like?”

He’s about to refuse but she adds, “just a bit, please?”

It’s enough to win Mr. Bilbo over, and with modest reluctance he reads off a section aloud. Mayfair listens. Ten minutes later, when he trails off she looks up, bright-eyed, and gives a satisfied nod.

“I’m glad you wrote that,” Mayfair tells him. “It’s good.”

“Really?” it’s funny to see how surprised he looks, and Mayfair chuckles.

“Really. I wish I could write, but there isn’t time, and it would be impossible on the boat,” she sighs. “I do make up songs though. That’s a bit silly in comparison I suppose, but there you have it.”

“Songs are good,” Mr. Bilbo tells her, and for a moment he looks off in the distance, his face quiet and still. Mayfair wonders what tune he’s thinking of that makes him so melancholy. A few seconds later though, he shakes his head and manages a smile at her. “Fair’s fair—I’ve read for you, so sing a song for me. Part of one you like,” he echoes her words.

Mayfair feels the heat flush over her cheeks, and she stammers a bit. “R-really? Well, I suppose I could do the dragonfly song . . .”

The dragonfly song is the one she sings when she sees them skimming over the water just before sunset, moving like glittering needles. It’s a quick little ditty and Mayfair looks at the floor the entire time she sings it, but when she glances up, Mr. Bilbo is bobbing his head in time, his whole expression delighted.

“I quite like that,” he murmurs. “Sounds sort of like them, bouncing and quick. Could you . . . could you sing it again for me? Please?”

She does, and he starts to join in this time. It helps, and by the time the song ends, both of them are grinning.

“Foolish, I know,” she tells him with more confidence, “but it just felt like the right tune for them. Faster than the duck song, and not as serious as the deep water song.”

“Wait, you also have songs about ducks? And deep water?” he sounds delighted, and Mayfair nods, heat in her face again.

“I spend a lot of time on the boat,” she offers by way of excuse. “Sometimes it’s a bit . . . lonely, so I . . . make up songs.”

He smiles at her then, and it’s an amazing smile because it’s kind and understanding and open. Mayfair feels her heart stutter a beat.


	3. Chapter 3

The good thing about the rain is it gives Bilbo a chance to do all the little indoor chores he has put off for a while. The bad thing is that now that he has company as well, he doesn’t want to do any of them. Folding the dish towels and sorting the potatoes and ironing the curtains can all wait as far as he’s concerned; sitting and talking with Miss Mayfair is far more interesting.

She knows her share of shire gossip, certainly and the little politics of the area too, but beyond that it’s clear that Miss Mayfair is also keenly observant, both of folk and nature. Being on a boat, she says, makes it easier to watch things on the banks, and Hobbit nature being what it is, making connections is the natural second step. When she tells him about her father’s half-hearted attempts to get himself elected, Bilbo is sympathetic.

“He’s a good man, but too nervous,” Miss Mayfair tells him with a sigh. “Too worried about what others think of him. And of course I’m no help either, being this unwed millstone around his neck. Father wants to marry me off, but without me he’ll starve, and quite frankly I’d rather spend my days on a boat than be left behind in some hole with no say over my days.”

“What if you married another fisherman?” Bilbo points out, half-playfully since he senses this is a sore point for the girl. She rolls her pretty eyes.

“None in Needlehole would have me; not without a dowry that my father cannot hope to supply, Mr. Bilbo. I’ve out-fished the majority anyway, and although they all laugh about it, it cuts their pride in a way that won’t heal easily.” Miss Mayfair says with a little toss of her head, but Bilbo sees a hint of regret on her face. Clearly she and her father have suffered a bit thanks to her attitude and Hobbits, he knows, have long memories.

“Ah well, if you like the water and are happy on it,” he offers, and Miss Mayfair nods a little too quickly, eager to pass by this point of the conversation, embarrassed at being hoist on her own spinsterhood. 

After a while they drift to the kitchen and Bilbo begins to prepare lunch. Miss Mayfair insists on helping and it makes for quick work as she peels potatoes and grates cheese for the shepherd’s pie he constructs. It’s the sort of easy give and take he hasn’t had since boyhood. Bag End is a good home, but it’s a large pod for a single pea, a fact he’s aware of too sometimes.

As they wait for the pie to bake, they play checkers, and Mayfair wins six games to three, her quick little fingers moving men and making kings quickly. Bilbo blames his lack of concentration on the fact that when she bends forward the neck of her shirt gaps a bit. Not something he’s _supposed_ to notice, but the cut of the garment was never meant for a girl’s chest and the top button strains with every lean.

 _I’m becoming an old lecher,_ Bilbo thinks, feeling his face go red. His guest, this girl is probably only half his age if that, and here he is as aware of her decollete as any young village buck.

For her part she seems oblivious of his discomfort and for that Bilbo is grateful. He mentally reprimands himself to keep his eyes up and continues to lose games anyway, enjoying himself nonetheless. When the scent of pie wafts in, they both agree to quit the current session and head back to the kitchen.

The pie is lovely. Since it’s only the two of them, Bilbo has them settle in at the kitchen table and serves up glasses of blackberry wine and wedges of rose-petal cheese to go with their lunch. He notes that Mayfair has lovely table manners despite the roughness of her fingers. She has a good appetite too; something else he approves of. 

Afterwards though, it’s clear that she’s still a bit under the weather and Bilbo suggests some liniment and a nap, in that order. Uncapping the little ceramic pot of Brimstone Soak allows the fumes to make his eyes water, but Mayfair gives a nod of approval and takes it, smiling. “Oh yes, this will do the trick,” she murmurs. “Although I’ll be a bit . . . pungent.”

“Mostly mint,” Bilbo reminds her with a smile. “And that’s a good scent. Go on with you; I’ve got boring chores to do while you rest.” He sends her off in the direction of the master bedroom and busies himself cleaning up the kitchen. From the sound of the wind outside the storm is renewing itself for another big blow and Bilbo is glad he’s got enough wood inside to keep the fire going for a while.

Then a little crashing sound alerts him that something is amiss, and padding quickly he makes his way to the bedroom door, hesitating just outside. “Are you all right?” he calls loudly.

“I . . . I slipped,” comes the wavering reply, and Bilbo pushes the door open before he even thinks about it, not quite prepared for the sight of Mayfair in the candlelight, her braces down and her shirt rucked up to reveal the curve of one sleek but bruised hip. The pot of Brimstone Soak is on the floor, the ointment just beginning to trickle out. Bilbo scoops it up and his momentum brings him close to her; within that intimate space where the scent of her skin overwhelms him for a second.

Not a girl. _A woman,_ Bilbo realizes, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly. He’s caught, not daring to move closer, but not willing to step back either, and in this unexpected proximity he sees how wide Mayfair’s pupils are as she returns his gaze. She’s unafraid and yet just as startled as he is. Just as aware of him on this new level of recognition between them.

She sighs, and Bilbo feels the warmth of her breath reach his cheek, like a caress. “It’s tricky,” Mayfair murmurs and for a moment Bilbo is confused because those words could mean anything right now. He doesn’t have what it takes to interpret them, and the tilt of her face lets him see the fine velvety down along her cheek in the candlelight.

“May I . . . help?” he offers in a rough whisper, the words coming out before he realizes he’s saying them. Bilbo’s not sure what he’s offering, but the urge seems magnified in this closeness. There’s mint in the still air, and sun-dried linen and the gentle perfume of Mayfair’s clean skin.

In reply she nods, one curly tendril of hair slipping over her shoulder; she reaches to tug the shirt up a bit. Bilbo dips his fingers into the salve and brings them to the curve of her hip, touching the warm skin with reverence. He smears the ointment on, letting it create a layer of heat between his fingers and the softness of her flesh, his touch gliding smoothly along. Bilbo feels the jut of her hipbone, the long muscles kept tone by hours of bending and hauling nets. He feels how very alive Mayfair is under his touch.

And then he feels dizzy. The mingled scents, the closeness that seems tinted with the shadows in the room; Bilbo feels his body stir.

 _This is wrong_ he reminds himself. _Mayfair is a guest._

 _She is a guest,_ his thoughts agree. _She is also young and beautiful and under your hand. She is not moving away._

Her little sigh is one of relief and pleasure. Startled, Bilbo looks up and catches her profile; long lashes, faint smile complete with dimples. “Oh that’s perfect,” Mayfair murmurs. “Sinking right through the bruise, right where I can’t reach it myself. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Bilbo assures her, and for the moment his dark thoughts thin out and dissipate, like a soap bubble. He dips another finger into the ointment and carefully rubs it upward, where her waist curves in convex definition. Mayfair shudders and gives a small gasp of a giggle.

“Ticklish,” she explains in a shy voice. 

“As am I,” Bilbo admits with a wry twist of his lips. “One poke to the side of my ribs and I collapse like an old scarecrow.” It’s meant to make her laugh and does; Mayfair giggles again, the sound sweet. Bilbo finishes applying the Brimstone Soak, and then courageously pulls his hand back, reaching for the facecloth near the water pitcher to wipe it clean. The moment is lighter now and he can face her again. “There. That should help heal things along.”

“Yes, it shall,” Mayfair hums, tugging the shirt down and stuffing it back into the waistband of the trousers. “I’m certainly _feeling_ it at the moment.”

“The burn will keep you warm,” Bilbo assures her, adding, “Rest and let it do its work, eh?”

He steadies her as she climbs into bed, and when Mayfair is stretched out, all that lovely dark hair across his pillow, Bilbo feels a sense of proprietary concern. It takes effort not to reach down and stroke her hair, but he does manage a smile. “Sleep,” Bilbo tells Mayfair gently. “Supper will be in a few hours and you’ll be feeling much better by then.”

She gives a little nod and closes her eyes, the simple trust evident in her peaceful breathing. Bilbo blows the candle out and tiptoes away, closing the bedroom door behind him and giving a gusty sigh as he does so. It’s only when he makes his way back to the kitchen that he realizes how tightly he’s gripping the little pot of Brimstone Soak.

“Get _ahold_ of yourself,” he murmurs in a dry voice. “The storm will be over by morning and there will be a full list of things needing doing, not the least will be seeing the girl off. You’ve got enough to do without mooning over her, Bilbo Baggins.”

This personal rebuke makes him snort and he goes to put more wood on the fire.

&&&

She wakes again, rising slowly through the layers of sleep and smiling when she realizes where she is this time. There is no daylight at all through the window, but her night vision is good enough to know the layout of the room. Mayfair crawls from the bed, less achy than before; the ointment has done a good job in lessening the pain of the bruises. After a quick trip to the little water closet she stretches and considers what she can do to repay Mr. Bilbo for his hospitality.

Fish is the first thing that comes to mind, naturally, but without her boat and nets that’s not going to be possible. Mayfair thinks about what other skills she has, taking a mental inventory even as a sneaky set of other thoughts lurk below those in her mind. Sewing of course; she’s got lots of experience with that. Some cooking, mostly of the baking sort. If she had the supplies Mayfair figures she could probably knit him something to wear, although that’s a bit personal . . . 

_Personal, yes,_ her thoughts snicker. _You wouldn’t mind that though, would you? He’s definitely attractive with those blue eyes and that kind smile._ Instantly Mayfair chides herself even as she remembers the feel of his fingers along her bare hip, that warm touch smoothing in the ointment and creating heat in other places at the same time. She knows the lure is physical, yes. Mayfair’s been kissed before; she knows the opening steps of the dance that ends on a mattress or a haystack or behind a hedgerow. 

Only the opening steps, though. She’s been too skeptical of the sheep’s eyes some of the village boys make at her, too smart to think there won’t be a price paid if matters go further without a wedding. Still, the temptations of Mr. Bilbo’s dimples and steady gaze are strong enough to make her shiver a bit. _He’d be good at . . . things,_ Mayfair thinks. _A man of the world._

She’s not sure what that means exactly, but she senses that Bilbo Baggins would know all the steps to the dance and then some, probably. The thought makes her shiver again, and bite her lips to hold back a laugh. To keep herself from letting her mind dwell on matters best left alone, Mayfair heads out and follows her nose because the scent of something very good is tantalizing her now, a sweet and gamey scent she recognizes as roast hare.

Mr. Bilbo is at the spit in the kitchen, basting and humming at the same time. He looks up at her and smiles. “Better?”

“Better,” she agrees. “Um, thank you, for earlier. For . . . helping.”

Mayfair catches it then, the faint pink of a blush on his face, and it startles her because it’s so unexpected.

And sweet.

“Yes well sometimes injuries are in . . . tricky places,” he chuffs, looking away from her. “I hope you like hare.”

“I do,” Mayfair assures him. “It smells wonderful.”

A sudden gust of wind interrupts them, making the window of the kitchen shake and they both look at it in surprise. Mayfair wraps her arms around herself and shivers a little. “I blame myself,” she tells Mr. Bilbo. “I saw the signs and went out anyway. I hope father will forgive me.”

“Oh I’m sure he will,” Mr. Bilbo tells her comfortingly. “You’re his child, and parents— _good_ parents—forgive.”

His words warm her, and Mayfair ducks her head, thinking that Mr. Bilbo himself would make a good father himself with an attitude like that.

 

This time it’s _her_ turn to ask questions, and half of her dinner goes cold as Mayfair listens, enchanted, to the story of his Adventure. He does wonderful impressions of each dwarf, from the puffed out cheeks of one called Bombur to the menacing look of one called Dwalin. He’s melancholy when he reaches the end of his story, several hours later, and by then the fire is low and the dishes are a sad, sorry mess on the table. 

In the pause that follows Mayfair slowly rises and moves over to Mr. Bilbo, impulsively putting an arm around his shoulders in gentle comfort. It’s not a romantic gesture, just one designed to console, and the way he leans into her tummy feels right. Gently Mayfair lifts a hand to stroke his hair, and it’s warm under her fingers, thick and soft.

She stands here feeling needed, support and reassurance a tangible bond between them, and Mayfair is so very glad she can do this for Mr. Bilbo; let him grieve for companions long gone and unremembered in this part of the world by anyone else but him. He clings to her for a while in the dark warmth of the kitchen and then finally, with a deep, wet breath lifts his face away and looks up at her, his crooked smile breaking her heart as he blinks a bit.

“Thank you,” Mr. Bilbo whispers to her, his voice rough. “I haven’t . . . I’ve never had the chance to tell anyone about all of this. You’re the first who’s . . . ever asked.”

“I’m honored,” Mayfair tells him just as softly. “They were noble souls and good friends; that’s what makes it right to remember them.”

He nods at that, and Mayfair sees that although Mr. Bilbo’s eyes are red his smile this time is stronger. “That they were. I think . . . I think it’s time for bed, dear Mayfair. Leave the dishes for the morning I think. I’m so very tired.”

She gives a hum of agreement and when he pulls away to rise, she misses the weight of his head against her, the feel of his hair. 

_Seize the moment,_ she thinks, and slips an arm around his waist, murmuring, “To bed with you then. This time I’ll take care of things, all right?”

It pleases her that he doesn’t argue; instead, he bends forward and brushes his lips against her hairline, the buss gently warm. It sends more tingles through her, but Mayfair fights them; this isn’t the time or place to think of it. Instead, she guides him down the hall and to the second best bedroom, making sure Mr. Bilbo has a candle lit before she bids him goodnight and closes the door. 

She moves from room to room extinguishing the lights and banks the kitchen fire well before heading to her own room. Ablutions done, Mayfair strips down to her shirt and climbs into bed, her head full of wild bearded men, great flashing swords, and the memory of wet blue eyes.

She sleeps.


	4. Chapter 4

A while later—Mayfair isn’t sure of the exact time—she wakes with a jolt, shivering, and realizes that she’s rolled over into cold wetness. Perplexed, she reaches out a hand and feels the sodden sheets and coverlet all along the side of the bed, shockingly icy.

For a petrifying, humiliating second she fears somehow it’s her fault, but no, the gusts coming in through the broken window make it clear what’s happened. Mayfair slips out of bed and steps over, feeling bits of glass under her tough soles. Gingerly she clears the broken bits still in the window frame and pulls the shutters closed against the gusty rain, locking them. Now the room is grave-like; cold and dark and quiet. Mayfair moves to light the candle and another shiver rattles her body.

Rainwater has seeped along the wall under the window and the dresser is soaked, along with the closer half of the bed. She fetches towels from the water closet and mops up, ignoring her discomfort and chagrin, cleaning everything as best she can with her limited resources. It helps, but it’s too late for the bed, which must be stripped.

The cold isn’t doing her bruises much good, but Mayfair keeps working, gathering the linens and setting the doilies to dry on the towel rack. Just before she’s done she hears footsteps and looks up, mortified to see Mr. Bilbo, candle in hand looking into the bedroom around the door.

“I _thought_ I heard breaking glass,” he murmurs. “Oh dear. Are you all right?”

Mayfair nods. “S-s-s-sorry about this. The window . . .”

“Shhh, not your fault at all, Mayfair.” Mr. Bilbo comes over and examines the locked shutters for a moment, one hand resting lightly on the dresser. Even though Mayfair knows it was an accident, she feels horribly guilty just the same. The dresser will probably have to be sanded and re-varnished at this rate—

“I’ve been _looking_ for a reason to replace this monstrosity,” Mr. Bilbo murmurs cheerfully. “What a stroke of luck! Balthus Proudfoot will be thrilled haul it away and I can finally talk the Greenrow brothers into selling me one of their carved chests. Definitely a nice turn of events!”

He peeks over his shoulder at her, smiling. “The constant war of frugality and style, eh? I couldn’t have that last unless I had a compelling reason to get rid of this old thing, and now I do. It’s wonderful how some things turn out.”

Numbly Mayfair nods, a little startled at his cheer, but he must see something of her confusion since he comes over to her and taps her nose with a playful finger. “The dresser’s _not_ valuable, Mayfair—it’s cheap oak and its only virtue is size. Proudfoot will pull it apart and make some lovely toolboxes from it, you’ll see.”

“Really?” blurts out before she can stop it, and Mayfair wants to squirm because she sounds like a child needing reassurance. Mr. Bilbo chuckles, still smiling at her and again she’s caught in how blue his eyes are.

“Really,” he replies firmly. “Now come along; you can’t sleep in here tonight.”

She follows him out, and the temperature in the hallway is warmer than the bedroom, but not by much. Mr. Bilbo slips an arm around her and they make their way through the darkness with only his candle casting a brave little glow before them. When they finally reach one of the far doors in the Hole, Mayfair feels him slow and hesitate.

It dawns on her then, and a lovely, frightening twist moves through her, blooming under her stomach and rising through as Mayfair realizes that beyond the door must be a bed, a bed probably still . . . warm.

“Go rest,” he urges her. “I’ll take the sofa in the parlor.”

“N-n-no,” Mayfair tells him, her voice a chatter as shivers run through her jaw. “Not f-fair to you. Either _I_ t-take the sofa, or . . . we _both_ stay.” 

For a moment she stares at him, trying to read his startled expression, trying to find something in Mr. Bilbo’s wide blue eyes to justify her boldness. He’s been a gracious host and this saucy suggestion—for that’s what most folk would call it—can’t be totally unexpected. At least she hopes not. 

He cocks his head as if he’s unsure of what he’s just heard, but his words are soft. “Mayfair, you’re a _good_ girl—”

“—And I’ll _still_ be a good girl, but I’ll be a lot warmer one too if I can put my b-back up against yours,” the words tumble out of her. “Mr. Bilbo we’re both cold and tired, and I mean nothing forward to it, just some rest. Please,” she adds, feeling close to tears for some odd reason. “On my mother’s name I don’t mean anything more than bundling against the chill.”

*** *** *** 

For a long moment Bilbo stares at the girl, and even in his absent gaze he notes the way her raven-colored hair gleams in the candlelight; how young and miserable and adorable she looks all at the same time. An unaccountable tenderness wells up in him and Bilbo wants to reach out and touch her face.

He doesn’t, and restrains himself with a soft cough to cover his confusion. “You’re very kind, but I’ll be fine on the sofa, truly.”

“Pardon me, but I’ve sat on that sofa and I know you _won’t_ be,” Mayfair counters, her chin sticking out at a mulish angle that almost makes him smile. “It’s all right for your backside, sort of, but you won’t get a wink of sleep lying on that lumpy, itchy horsehair padding.”

Bilbo hesitates and that little pause is enough to make her continue, her tone softer. “I _trust_ you. You saved me from the river, you’ve fed me and fussed over me, and I know you’re an honorable Hobbit. Now are we going to argue about this all night, or are you going to come get warm?”

There’s no counter he can make at this point that wouldn’t sound churlish, so he gives a sigh and a rueful smile. “You’re probably right about the sofa.”

“I _know_ I am,” Mayfair sighs, reaching out to push the bedroom door open. “Begging your pardon but you _really_ need to have it opened up and re-fluffed this spring.”

“It was my aunt Belba’s,” Bilbo admits gloomily. “She left it to my father when she passed away and honestly it’s only in the parlor because it can seat three at a time.”

“Re-fluffed,” Mayfair repeats firmly. “And aired out too. Oh this is nice,” she finishes, looking at the bed.

It’s his old one, from his youth, a wide and sturdy bed with one of Proudfoot’s heavy frames carved with vines of ivy in curlicues on the headboard. In the candlelight it looks as big as a ship, and the rumpled coverlet is mossy green flannel. Bilbo has slept in this bed for nearly twenty-five years; has dreamed and daydreamed here, has dropped off in exhaustion and discovered his own sensuality on this mattress; that last thought guiltily flits through his mind as he watches Mayfair walk around to the far side and climb in.

“Come on,” she urges gently, her face serious. “You can trust me too.”

Slowly he moves to the near side and drops his rump on the mattress, aware that the support is different; firmer by the counterweight of another body. Bilbo manages to slide in, tugging his nightshirt hem down and trying to look anywhere but at Mayfair. She leans away from him and blows out the feeble flame of the candle, plunging them into darkness. 

Settling in takes time; they both shift and whisper apologies with each twist and turn but finally Bilbo finds himself on his side, and the sweet warmth along his back tells him that Mayfair has found her place. She gives a contented sigh, and one arm slides around his waist, like a soft belt.

He relaxes. 

He slowly drops off to sleep, and right before he does, Bilbo thinks, _I like this._

_And I knew I would._

*** 

It’s still dark when he wakes up, but some inner clock lets Bilbo know that it’s just after dawn. Even though his eyes are closed, he hears how the wind had died down to occasional gusts, and to his nose, the scent of rain has faded into the faint after-musk of damp leaves and mud.

There will be much to do to clean up, he knows: clearing and raking mostly, along with repairing the bedroom window, but for the moment Bilbo is content to lie here in the warm cocoon of the blankets, the cozy weight of Mayfair draped along his right side. Her head is a nice weight on his shoulder, and the possessive drape of her leg over his is enough to send impulses of a certain sort through his frame.

_Oh dear,_ Bilbo thinks, caught between relaxation and response. _Not good._

Actually it’s _very_ good; too good and he stays still, savoring the cuddle all the more. He’s not the hugging sort and never has been, but this girl keeps drawing responses from him, and Bilbo can’t tell if it’s because she’s lonely . . . or _he_ is.

It’s not an easy thing to admit, loneliness. Bilbo’s lived on his own for years now, both before his Adventure and after it, and in all that time he’s been very comfortable with his own company, has preferred his own company and made that clear to everyone. But there have been times when another voice would have been welcome.

When another body—like this one curling so sweetly around him now—would have been, _is,_ very welcome. 

Bilbo lies quietly, willing Mayfair’s leg to stay put, but it shifts a bit, almost in mischievous defiance of his thoughts, stroking a little and sending sparks of heat along his thigh. He fights the tiny groan in this throat because noble as his intentions are, the rest of his body isn’t listening to high-minded ideals. No the rest of his body is slyly urging him to pull Mayfair over his chest and kiss her awake.

_It isn’t fair,_ Bilbo thinks. This girl—a stranger he’s known for two days—is now making him flustered and warm and unsure of himself, and all without the slightest intention to do so. Mayfair Lillyroot hasn’t a devious bone in her body—

_Her body_ comes a dark little echo in his thoughts, and Bilbo bites his lips hard to drive it away. It’s a nasty shadow, a cobweb clinging to his desire and dirtying it somehow. He knows, too, the trinket has brought it to mind and for that he lies still, mastering himself until the hint of nausea leaves.

A soft sigh warms his ear and he hears the shift in Mayfair’s breathing as she slowly wakens. It’s hard not to smile, hearing her give a little gasp of surprise as she realizes how snugly she’s wrapped around him. She stiffens, but Bilbo keeps his breathing even, and allows her a moment to compose herself before he opens his eyes and lets his gaze flicker sideways to hers.

“ _You_ are the most _comfortable_ Hobbit I’ve ever known,” Mayfair whispers forthrightly, and gives his ribs a little squeeze to accent her words.

“I’m not sure if I’m insulted or not,” Bilbo tells her a few seconds later even though they’re both grinning at each other in the dim light like a pair of idiots.

“You shouldn’t be,” Mayfair reassures him. “You’re also the only Hobbit I’ve, um, put my feet on, in a manner of speaking.”

Bilbo lifts the quilt to check. “So you have, _and_ stolen all my warmth, thank you very much. Tell me, are _all_ you Lillyroots this deviously cool-blooded?”

This earns him a squawk and a throw pillow full in the face.

“Oh is _that_ how it’s going to be?” Smirking, Bilbo returns the favor with the down-filled lump under his head, and within minutes the spirited battle takes casualties as a flying bolster knocks a painting from the wall. Mayfair freezes, but he gives a good-natured shrug and waves a hand. “Pfft. A hideous duck portrait; it’s better on the floor, believe me.”

“Well in _that_ case,” Mayfair giggles, and swings another pillow at him, putting substantial power behind it. Bilbo dodges and retaliates well, having learned a thing or two about doling out blows, and all too soon the pair of them are collapsed again on the mattress, breathless and giggling in their truce as stray feathers drift in the growing light of the dawn.

“That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve done in _ages_ ,” Mayfair snickers.

“You’re downright _dangerous_ with a pillow,” Bilbo tells her, fighting to keep a straight face. “I’d _hate_ to see what you’d do with an entire feather bed.”

They both snicker, and Bilbo senses that this moment for all its loveliness is passing; they’re both aware of the morning now, and all the responsibilities that are waiting to be faced just beyond the bedroom door. He knows it’s time to get on with things, and can’t help but feel a streak of resentment now.

“Thank you,” Mayfair tells him, and leans over, one of her long black curls brushing his cheek. “For everything.”

The brush of her lips at the corner of his mouth is so impossibly tender that Bilbo closes his eyes, afraid to breathe. They linger against his skin, those lips and he turns, taking the gift of it in a quick kiss, clumsy but oh-so-warm.

They are halfway through another when the echoing rap on the front door carries through the Hole.


	5. Chapter 5

Mayfair starts, pulling back from Mr. Bilbo so quickly she’s in danger of toppling off the mattress. She turns her face towards the direction of the sound, torn between freezing or scrambling off the bed, but Mr. Bilbo moves first.

He catches one of her hands and gives it a squeeze. “Stay put,” he orders in a calm voice. “Without a doubt it’s one of the neighbors and I will deal with it.”

She watches him rise up and tug his vest, run hands through his tousled hair, plucking a stray feather out of it and the sight of that little plume brings up giggles that Mayfair tries to smother down. Mr. Bilbo shoots her a cheeky look and points at her in mock-warning before stepping out and leaving her in the bedroom.

Mayfair waits a few minutes, and then slips closer to the door, trying to focus on the dim sound of voices drifting through the halls. Cocking one ear, she strains to listen, curious and worried about what the discussion might be about. It’s not exactly a polite thing to do, but then again, she doesn’t want poor Mr. Bilbo to suffer on her account either.

“ . . . Quite th’ blow weren’t it?” comes an unfamiliar voice. “Anyway Hannah wanted me to step ‘round and make sure you were all right. Two of the south pastures are more lake than grass, and Titus Noakes is still looking for his bench. Saw your window; everything all right is it, Mr. Bilbo?”

“Yes, yes,” she hears Mr. Bilbo say with a calmness she herself doesn’t feel. “Although if you see my water butt rolling about, I’d be most grateful to have it back. Anyone flooded out?”

The conversation goes on for a bit about people and places Mayfair doesn’t know, and when she hears the door close, finally, new tension rises in her stomach. Carefully Mayfair backs away from the door, knowing her face is hot and her hands, cold.

 _How do I face him after . . ._ Mayfair thinks in a flush of squirmy embarrassment. She can still feel the softness of his mouth on hers, a ghost memory of lingering sweetness, like traces of honey. Even now Mayfair wants to lick her lips but stops herself and keeps her eyes on the floor.

Feet come into view, furry and large. “Right, then. Porridge I think, and maybe a rasher of bacon. Don’t know if you’re hungry but it’s best to start a journey on a full stomach and I have _no_ intention of walking to Needlehole without one.”

Mayfair starts, looks up into Mr. Bilbo’s face for signs of teasing but his expression is mildly serious; all except the slight upward quirk at the corner of his mouth the sight of which sends a little pulse of desire through her. She swallows. “You . . . you can’t go with me.”

She watches one of his eyebrows rise. “I certainly can, and what’s more I fully _intend_ to. It’s not a difficult journey and I’ve promised your father that you’d come home safely.”

“I’m not helpless!” Mayfair blurts, half in embarrassment and half in defiance. “I’m not some fancy elf princess who needs an _escort,_ Mr. Bilbo. I’ve hauled nets and mended them; I’ve taken full barrows of fish to market and back all on my own. Nobody _needs_ to watch over me!”

The minute the words are out of her mouth she regrets them, deeply. They’re rude, unkind words, hurtful words, and the very last thing she wants to do to this gentle man is cause him pain. She sucks in a breath, horrified at herself, and it takes serious effort to hold back the tears building up.

“You’re right; you’re _not_ helpless,” Mr. Bilbo tells her, his words slow. “I never thought you _were,_ Mayfair. But—and I say this with all respect, dear—I know the way, and you don’t. I know the turnpikes and shortcuts and paths through this part of the shire. If we could take the river I’d let you lead the way and gladly, but the Water doesn’t run the straightest route and in any case it’s flowing away from Needlehole.”

Everything Mr. Bilbo says is true and Mayfair knows it. Worse, he’s saying it in such a gentle, reasonable voice that she feels ten times more the idiot. In an effort to avoid those kind blue eyes she turns and rubs her nose.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” she blurts out. “Ever since I washed up you’ve done nothing but look after me and it’s high time I was out of your hair, Mr. Bilbo.”

The little pause then feels like a chasm, and Mayfair is afraid to look at Mr. Bilbo, afraid to see what his expression must look like now.

“Mayfair Orrins Lillyroot, you listen to me,” comes his no-nonsense tone. “If _I_ had been the one to wash up on the shore near _you_ I have no doubt that you _and_ your father would have taken me in, cleaned me up, fed me and made sure I had enough pipe-weed, fish pie and biscuits to be comfortable on the road home. How can I do anything less than that for _you,_ eh? And I have no idea where you’ve gotten this _ridiculous_ notion that you’re a burden. You’ve helped me all _through_ the last two days and been lovely company to boot, so I won’t have any more of this stuff and nonsense. So, I think we’ll have first breakfast then I’ll tend to what needs straightening, and we’ll see about getting on the road in time for second breakfast.”

Mayfair tries not to smile, but she feels her lips curl up as she risks a sidelong glance at Mr. Bilbo. He has his head cocked and is waiting for a response, and she thinks he’s completely confident, but then he strokes his tongue over his top lip in a quick flick.

It’s a sweet little sign and Mayfair suddenly knows he’s as nervous as she is; that he feels the attraction too. This should make her more nervous, but oddly, it doesn’t. Instead it’s giving her the giggles, and she bursts out laughing, snorting against her palms in a very unladylike way.

When she peeks again at Mr. Bilbo he looks torn between confusion and wry understanding, his arms crossed in front of him. He also looks as if he isn’t going to move until he gets agreement and it’s so very, very _hobbit_ of him that Mayfair nearly laughs again.

“I should know better by now than to argue with a legend, shouldn’t I? Breakfast sounds lovely, and after that I’d be happy to help tidy what needs righting around the place. After _that_ we shall see; I can’t promise any more than that. You may be needed _here,_ ” she points out quietly, holding up a hand to forestall any further protest.

Mr. Bilbo looks slightly mutinous but nods once and leads the way to the kitchen.

*** 

Breakfast is generally one of his favorite meals but Bilbo hardly tastes any of the food he’s eating at the moment. The bacon is some of his best—smoked and sugar cured—and the porridge steams in the bowl, thick and fresh, but his appetite barely registers anything. Across the table from him, Mayfair eats slowly, her eyes downcast. It’s uncomfortable to be left wondering what she’s thinking, and worse that he’s not sure he can ask. That only leaves the food between them until he takes a breath and pushes his bowl away.

“Mayfair,” he begins softly. “I’m sorry I kissed you—”

“You are?” she looks up, eyes wide, and Bilbo has to swallow because the look on her face is so vulnerable. 

“No, I’m not sorry, not because of the kiss. Kisses,” he corrects himself quickly. “They were lovely. The best I’ve ever received, truth told. I’m sorry because I shouldn’t have taken them. It wasn’t my place to . . . to do that. You’re my guest, and younger than I am.”

Her chin comes up again and Bilbo knows what that means now. He fights against smiling as Mayfair holds his gaze across the table, a small smear of porridge on her bottom lip. “I’m not sorry either. And they were freely given, so you didn’t actually take them, so there’s that, you know. And I’m not that much younger than you anyway. I’m nearly thirty five, you know.”

“All of thirty _four,_ ” he muses lightly, and earns himself a swat on the wrist from her even as she grins.

“Indeed, so I won’t listen to any nonsense about being a child. I’m no child and I haven’t been for ages, not since--” Mayfair stops a moment and he reaches across the table for her hand, covering it with his own, larger one.

“She’d be very proud of you,” Bilbo assures her. “This, I know.”  
Mayfair says nothing but looks at their hands and shifts her grip to squeeze his back and the moment is quiet and full of something sweet.

 

He leaves her to the dishes, which are minimal, and goes out to look around the hill, noting clusters of folk out across the pastures and meadows. The air is fresh and a little breeze herds traces of clouds across the beautiful breadth of the sky. Bilbo takes a deep breath and looks around, feeling a surge of love for this particular view of the Shire. 

It’s a beautiful thing to be able to see the near and the far all in one gaze, and Bilbo lets his gaze turn northward, to the dark emerald patch of Bindbole Wood and the general direction of Needlehole. To anyone else in the Shire it would be considered a major trip, and worthy of a wagon or ponies at the very least, but Bilbo knows first-hand what a real journey is, and this will be a refreshing little jaunt compared to those. He could hire ponies of course, but already he knows Mayfair would fret at the expense, and that sort of provisioning would bring questions from folk.  
Bilbo prefers not to give rise to gossip, certainly not at Mayfair’s expense. Strange girl, washing up ashore in a storm—that news alone would be scurrying over fences and across the pub tables, but the added knowledge that she’d stayed holed up for days with the daft old bachelor of Bag End— _neither_ of them would live it down, Bilbo knows.

It’s funny to think that he’s faced far greater terrors than the local busybodies, but none of that matters at the moment, not when Mayfair’s reputation is at stake. He lives here, makes his home here, and while Bilbo doesn’t give a badger’s furry behind what most think of him, he knows full well he won’t risk the same for Mayfair.

Underfoot is the usual after-storm clutter of broken branches and waterlogged leaf debris amid lingering puddles. Bilbo makes his way to the potato patch, glad to see that despite the thrashed look of the vines most of the plants seem fine. The window is another matter, and he carefully pulls the rest of the broken glass out of the sill, collecting the pieces along with the large oak branch that lies on the ground at his feet.

He smiles. 

Here is the perfect justification for a trip north; panes of glass are dear and certainly not found locally. Nobody will think it odd for him to make a trip to fetch a replacement. Whistling now, Bilbo makes his way back to the front door and picks up a rake, determined to show anyone watching that he’s doing his bit to keep up appearances.

After a while he goes inside to find Mayfair has changed all the linens, swept the floors and is now dusting the parlor. He stops, surprised and shoots her a stern look. “You didn’t have to do this!”

“Felt like it,” she tells him with a shrug. “Besides, it needed doing. I figured if you were tidying the outside, the least I could do would be the inside.”

“Still,” Bilbo protests, trying not to smile. He can’t help his nature, and having things tidy and in their place _does_ appeal to him. “It’s too much, my dear.”

“It’s no such thing,” Mayfair flicks her dust rag at him and grins. “And thanks to your muddy feet I can do the floors too.”

“My . . . oh,” Bilbo grumbles looking down. “Drat. Still, I’ll do it. Things outside are set to rights, and we can be off in a while if we take the tunnel down to the water and make our way from there.”

“All right,” Mayfair agrees, giving a last pass of her rag over the mantelpiece. Bilbo stiffens and moves closer, nudging her away from it and taking the rag from her hand.

“It’s fine, it’s all very well done,” he mutters to her. “Why don’t you go and see if I’ve got a small cheese in the larder and I’ll take care of these tracks, eh?”

Puzzled Mayfair goes, and when she’s out of sight Bilbo moves a hand to where the trinket lies hidden back behind the matchbox, touching its cool surface. As his fingers pass over it, he holds his breath, expecting the usual prickle of covertness to stir within, and yet this time—

Nothing. 

Bilbo let his index finger circle the topmost edge of the ring for one long moment, and then he pushes the trinket deeper into the darkness, pulling his hand free and absently wiping it on the dust rag. It’s safe; hidden away, not visible. 

He turns to the little clods of drying mud on the floor, scrubbing at them with more force than necessary.

 _She won’t find it,_ Bilbo mentally tells himself.

_I won’t let it find HER._


	6. Chapter 6

Mayfair is amused at how thorough Mr. Bilbo is about packing. He has an orderly sense of what they’ll need, and she lets him talk to himself as he does so. Handing him things seems to be her job and she makes it a point to have whatever he asks for up and ready before he’s finished asking for it.

The two packs are done in record time, and before long she’s following Mr. Bilbo down the dark stairs, smelling the familiar scent of the river. Outside the light is bright enough to make her blink, and the familiar canopy of green leaves makes Mayfair grin with pleasure. Nice as the Hole has been, she’s happy to be outside once more, near the sparkle of light on the water. She looks at him in time to catch him looking at her.

“Right then, we are off,” Mr. Bilbo tells her, and points with his chin to the little path that meanders near the water’s edge. “We’ll take this down past the bridge and follow it up towards. This time of day I doubt we’ll see many folk.”

Mayfair nods. She’s still in the borrowed trousers and shirt, her dress clean and packed away for now on her back. With her hair tied back and a battered straw hat on her head she _might_ be able to pass for a lad, as long as nobody looks too closely. She intends to stay in Mr. Bilbo’s shadow and let _him_ do the talking, if there needs to be any talking to strangers.

After some cautious shifting from one side of the path to the other, furtively following Mr. Bilbo’s big footprints, Mayfair settles to a matching pace on his left side, keeping half an eye on the Water, which is parallel to them a stone’s throw away. The air is fresh and cool, with little gusts rippling through the long grass and playfully trying to take her hat off. Once they’ve gone a certain distance Mayfair sees Mr. Bilbo visibly relax; he stops to fish out his pipe and light it, giving a little half-smile as he does so.

“All right then, now we can set our own pace, eh?” using the long stem of the pipe he points forward and slightly to the right. “Bindbole Wood is that way, about three leagues off, barring any obstacles.”

“Will there be any?” Mayfair wants to know, peering in the indicated direction.

“Anything’s possible my girl,” Mr. Bilbo concedes. “Fallen trees, lake-sized puddles, stranded sheep . . .”

“Dangerous,” Mayfair grins. “I’ll protect you.”

“Good, see that you do,” Mr. Bilbo replies with mock-severity. “We all know the reputation _sheep_ have.”

“Very woolly,” Mayfair agrees, and stifles a giggle.

They walk along for most of the morning, chatting of this and that, the pipe’s smoke trailing behind them as they pass meadows and fields of slightly flattened wheat just starting to rise up again in the sunshine. Mayfair spots a few blackbirds in the sky, and around one bend they flush a large brown hare, watching it bound away in a quick burst of speed through the long grass.

“That’s good luck, that is, to cross a rabbit’s track,” Mayfair tells Mr. Bilbo confidently. 

He gives a nod and points ahead. “So I’ve heard, yes. There, just under that big willow; we’ll stop for a bite to eat, all right?”

Mayfair agrees, and after a while they reach the tree. It’s a huge beast, long branches forming a green pavilion around the mossy grass carpeting the ground under it. She’s pleased to see it’s on a rise above the river, too, so it will be cool as well.

They reach it and pull off their packs, enjoying the springy feel of the moss underfoot. Mr. Bilbo lays out a cloth and begins to slice up brown bread still warm from that morning’s baking, along with wedges of cheese, a carefully wrapped bundle of apples and a bottle of cider to wash it all down. 

It’s all delicious of course, and Mayfair is surprised at how much of an appetite she has. Mr. Bilbo frets a bit about not having proper plates but she doesn’t mind at all, and watches him bury the apple cores at the base of the willow.

Afterwards, Mayfair offers to help tidy up the rest of the picnic, but he shoos her away, so she wanders down to the water’s edge, peering into the shallows as she rolls up her trouser legs.

There are guppies and minnows darting about in the dappled water, and Mayfair wiggles her toes at them, grinning when they flee only to return a moment later, curious. Wading out to shin level, she drops a heavy crumb of cheese, watching it drift to the sandy bottom. Immediately it’s surrounded by hungry guppies, making it a ball of black wiggling spikes, and Mayfair giggles. She waits a moment longer, and then sees it; the long grey-green curve of a trout coming closer. Carefully, skillfully she inches her foot closer to the cheese, and . . .

With a flip the fish is in the air and Mayfair pulls her shirt out, using it to catch the wriggling thing. She turns, calling to Mr. Bilbo, who is looking at her with a strange, strange expression. It scares her a little, and in her distraction the fish slips out of her grip and back into the water, disappearing from sight within seconds. Not that she’s looking at it; Mayfair is caught by the sight of Mr. Bilbo, pale and still.

“Are you all right?” she called tentatively.

“Yes,” he says in a voice that isn’t, and then a little more strongly, “Yes. I just . . . where did you learn to . . . _do_ that?”

Mayfair wades back towards him, rinsing her hands in the water. “Most River folk can, after a fashion. It’s a Stoor thing, really. Comes from being near the water so much of the time.”

“Ah,” Mr. Bilbo says, and gives his head a shake. “Well, I suppose it’s handy when one hasn’t got a pole or a net.”

“Sometimes,” Mayfair agrees.

“You don’t . . . eat them raw, do you?” comes his hesitant question, and Mayfair shoots him a startled look, hands on her hips.

“Raw? What do you think I am, a _cat_?” she shoots back, a little stung by the question. “Really Mr. Bilbo, I think you’ve had a touch too much of the sun. Raw! That’s just _nasty,_ that is.” 

His grin is more reassuring, and when she reaches the shore he hands her hat to her, his voice low. “I’m sorry, my dear. It’s just . . .”

And he tells her of the creature he met deep in the wet waters of the troll’s mountain; a thing not a troll that caught and ate raw fish. Mayfair listens, revolted and a little frightened by the description. By the intensity of his memory. When Mr. Bilbo is done, she hesitates only a moment, then moves into his arms and hugs him, very tightly.

He hugs her back, and they stand like that for a long moment under the veil of the willow branches.

*** *** ***

The sight of Mayfair flipping a fish out of the water gave him a heart’s beat of panic, true, but Bilbo knows he’s is better now. Telling the girl about it helped of course, and then that lovely hug . . . it’s a wonder what a reassuring embrace can do to settle one’s nerves.

She’s at his elbow, never far, looking up at the trees, and Bilbo likes the line of her jaw, the rounded point of her ear. It’s been a long time since he felt such stirrings inside, and a part of him wants to slow their pace; draw out this little jaunt.

To keep it _theirs_ for a while longer.

But there’s duty of course, and getting the girl back to Needlehole is important. Her father will be worried, and given the storm there will be probably as much to clean up there as in Hobbiton. Certainly the fallen trees and debris along the path to bear that up. Three times they’ve had to detour around heavy brambles. Mayfair has taught him several songs and together they’ve made one up about puddles.

Silly, yes, but Bilbo doesn’t mind. It’s been good to laugh along the way.

By the time they reach the edge of Bindbole Wood the sun is behind the tops of trees there, and Bilbo knows it’s time to make camp. He finds a little sheltered spot behind a hillock and looks at Mayfair who slips off her pack with a sigh of relief and stretches her arms overhead.

“So . . . would you like some fish?” she asks, smiling, and he looks at her for a long moment before smiling back.

“You’re serious?”

“I am. The Water’s just over there, and I can bring us a pair of trout to roast on sticks if you’d like.”

“That sounds lovely,” he tells her quietly. “Do you think . . ?”

“Yes?” 

“Do you think you could show _me_ . . . how?” Bilbo asks, hoping she’ll see it for the act of faith it is.

That brings one of her giggles. “I could _try._ ”

Ten minutes later the pair of them are knee-deep in an eddy-pool along the edge of the river, peering down into the water together. Mayfair is patiently pointing out the shadows moving around them. “That’s an eel; not as fond of them as my father is, and that’s a young pollan . . . too small for eating, and that one is a brown trout who is going to be my supper—”

A splash later and Mayfair has the fish in hand. She quickly jabs a sharpened stick between its eyes and it stops wriggling.

“I hate that part,” she murmurs, dipping the fish back in the water to rinse it and then tossing it up on the shore. “It’s quick and they don’t suffer, but I still don’t like it.”

“I thought you fished for a _living,_ ” Bilbo murmurs, surprised.

“I do, but with nets that’s more of a business,” Mayfair mutters. “This is more personal, like. I like fishing, I just don’t like the killing part.”

“We’ll do them honor by enjoying them then,” Bilbo assures her, oddly moved by her admission. “As long as we’re grateful for the bounty, it’s a worthy death then, right?”

It’s a joy to see her face brighten at this, and she nods. “That’s a very kind way of thinking, Mr. Bilbo.”

“Just—Bilbo,” he tells her gently. “We are _friends,_ Mayfair.”

She blinks at this and gives a little nod, ducking her head bashfully. 

 

He’s not very good at it; terrible in fact. It doesn’t help that Bilbo finds himself stubbing his toes on rocks under the water, or that Mayfair’s shirt is wet.

Wet enough to be a bit transparent in places it ought _not_ to be, actually. Bilbo knows full well what females look like; he certainly spent his share of time making the effort to find out years ago. To have Mayfair wandering around unconcernedly is both embarrassing and arousing, and Bilbo is torn about what to do. If he alerts her she’ll be mortified, and if he doesn’t, then he’s _not_ being the gentleman his mother would expect him to be.

Torn, he finds himself turning away from her, but sneaking peeks back her way, and that’s when he trips, slipping under the water with a sudden splash. Bilbo rises up again in a moment, embarrassed, cold, and unprepared for the glorious sight of Mayfair tugging him up, her shirt so plastered to her body as to be invisible.

Despite the chill, Bilbo feels a rush of heat between his thighs. Matters aren’t helped much by the feel of her pulling him close, checking his eyes. “Are you all right?” Mayfair demands anxiously, brushing his wet curls back from his forehead. “You gave me such a fright!”

“I’m-I’m fine,” he manages, teeth chattering a bit in a mix of cold and desire, his body brushing hers as he tries to find his footing again. Then Bilbo steps on one of her feet and they both go down into the water, tangling together, bobbing up again spluttering.

He drags the two of them to the shore and they flop themselves on it, wet and giggling, out of breath. Bilbo rolls to face her, feeling a sense of déjà vu as Mayfair rises to meet him, her mouth seeking his. And this kiss . . .

_This_ kiss is different. It’s a slow sweet plunge of tongue to tongue, a tango of slick heat between them. Bilbo realizes how thin the veneer of self-delusion has been, for _both_ of them. Mayfair’s hands grip his shoulders, her little moan urging him on, and he kisses her again, giving in, getting kissed in return.

He can’t remember how they make it up the slope to where the packs are, or how the two of them clumsily strip out of their wet gear to lie on one of the blankets. The light shows it’s the rich golden hour before sunset, and what stays with Bilbo is how Mayfair’s skin is like pink cream; how delicate the rim of her ear is, how her breath feels against the side of his throat.

It’s a near thing but Bilbo doesn’t take her.

He touches her, kisses her, lets his damp fingers and soft lips linger on and love Mayfair’s body in the last brilliance of sunset as he murmurs endearments and reassurances against her skin. They stay entangled through the sweet shudders of her pleasure, through her wide-eyed, delighted exploration of his very different physique.

When her curiosity blends with his own overwhelming need, Bilbo guides her hands and shows her what he needs. Mayfair laughs and her fingers dance over his aching flesh, caressing him with such tenderness that his climax is an overwhelmingly joyous event. 

A reassurance that he lives.

They stay curled around each other until the sun goes down and twilight paints the sky. Finally Mayfair leans over him, dark curls dangling down to touch his bare chest, her eyes bright. “Thank you,” she whispers.

“Mayfair,” Bilbo begins, but she won’t let him say anything more as she chuckles, kisses him, and rises, pulling dry clothes from her pack.

“If you start a fire, I’ll see if there are any fish left,” she tells him quietly with a smile.


	7. Chapter 7

Mayfair feels light-headed, serenely happy in a way that defies words. Her body— normally so solid and dependable—is barely tethered to the earth at the moment, so light and free is it. She’s not sure if she can even contain this joy, not with the effervescence of it lightening her so.

It’s too much to share at the moment and the fish is gone from the bank, so collecting wood is a good way to collect herself as well. She leaves her hair loose as she wanders, foraging suitable sticks and branches left over from the storms, her thoughts as buoyant as her stride. Hands automatically pull and sort as Mayfair smiles to herself.

This must be what brings folk together, she thinks. This dance that pulls male and female together like magnet ends; compelled beyond resisting. And to find that one’s private pleasure can— _is_ —practice for such mutual bliss is overwhelming! Mayfair thinks she is a smart girl who knows more than most, but this new knowledge is humbling. It explains much of what she’s seen, and much of which she’s yearned for.

When she returns to the hollow, Bilbo has managed a small fire. He looks up at her, eyes bright but still tinged with the smallest hint of sadness. Mayfair sets the wood down and hesitates, not sure if her touch will be welcome. He reaches out, though, and the feel of his fingers on hers makes her sigh.

“Thank you,” comes his murmur. He keeps gazing at her, and instead of feeling self-conscious Mayfair smiles at him, squeezing his fingers in return.

“It’s all right,” she tells him quietly. “We didn’t do anything that I didn’t already _want_ to do, so stop your fretting. I think we’re grown enough to stand by that, eh?”

“You are,” Bilbo sighs, “too pragmatic at times, Mayfair Orrins Lillyroot and I adore you for making an old man happy.”

“Not old,” she smirks, “Not by a long shot. Now let’s see if we can manage a meal before we both die of hunger.”

There are enough comestibles to fill the bill—cheese and bread, a jugged hare, more apples and a pear pie carefully wrapped to keep it whole. It’s enough busy work to keep them from any serious discussion, and by the time the food is eaten and the dishes done, the lovely mauve twilight has turned to indigo across the sky between the treetops overhead.

Mayfair settles back against the grass, aware of the sweet smoke of Bilbo’s pipe as she stretches her toes towards the warmth of the fire. The air is chilly, thanks to the river close by, but she’s full and content. She wants to snuggle but won’t, not until he reaches for her.

She hopes he will, soon though.

“We have another half day’s walk until Needlehole,” Bilbo begins in a soft voice. “And before we get there, I want to know your thoughts.”

Mayfair treads lightly because she sees the concern in his eyes, even here in the dim firelight. “My thoughts? Well, I think you think too _much._ We have the road and the stars and warm blankets and the whole night ahead of us, Bilbo Baggins. I’m not asking for a blessed thing more than that.”

He blows a smoke ring and watches it rise up to join the tendrils drifting from the campfire. “You should,” Bilbo murmurs, but she can hear the smile in his voice. “A woman like you deserves _more_ than this.”

“I’ve spent the better part of my life deciding what’s best for myself,” Mayfair reminds him, “and I’m not about to stop now. We’ve got a very nice rapport here, and even if it’s only for the rest of the trip, it’s what I want.” Carefully she adds, “We’re sensible folk, we Lillyroots. No point in asking for more.”

“Stubborn, more like,” Bilbo sighs and moves to empty his pipe on the fire. “And what if there’s more _to_ it than what’s here and now on the road?”

Mayfair chuckles. “If there _is_ more to it, then it will come in its own sweet time. You can’t rush an egg or a sunset, dear.”

She sees him smile, his expression bright and for a moment, boyish. “Maybe that’s so, but you can’t stop either of those once they’re in motion. And make no mistake, Mayfair dear, _we_ are most definitely . . . in motion.” He trails off, still watching her.

“And will that motion bring you from over there to over _here,_ by me?” Mayfair asks softly, propping her head up, watching him.

“I believe it will.”

The second time is no less sweet but not as frantic, not as much driven by need as by tenderness. Mayfair leads this time and finds herself moved by the sight of Bilbo’s patience. He permits her to touch and explore his body, answering her shy questions in whispers, mirroring some of her caresses with more confidence.

There are questions she wants to ask but Mayfair doesn’t, because her body is blooming under Bilbo’s skillful fingers and kisses. Dim in the back of her muddled thoughts she senses there’s something more, something _unfinished_ to this. When she catches his face in her hands he shakes his head.

“No,” he insists, his voice ragged. “While it might be yours to give, I won’t _take_ it, sweetheart. I won’t sully your reputation, not for all the kisses in the Shire.”

Mayfair shudders, torn between desire for this stubborn man and tender exasperation with his sense of honor. She knows that his body wants completion with hers very much, that the feeling is mutual despite his noble words. Carefully she wraps her strong legs around him, cradling Bilbo’s body with hers to allow damp friction to bring them both to joy.

_A fine thing,_ she thinks drowsily, comforted by his weight. _Oh but I DO want more._

*** *** *** 

There is no confusion, no uncertainty. Most of his life those states have plagued him, but not in _this_ regard, and Bilbo knows his own mind as surely and clearly as he knows his own parlor. No, the matter is plainly obvious now, and a plan begins to form in his thoughts. Hobbits, Bilbo knows, are very keen on planning, particularly when it comes to certain events.

All things must take place in the correct order though, and that too, is a Hobbit habit, therefore when dawn begins to bring light into their little ravine he watches Mayfair sleep. She is a warm bouncy weight against his side, and each slow breath pushes her rounded chest against his slightly furry one. The sensation is tinged with desire, yes, but also with sweet comfort as well. Bilbo knows the scent of her skin now, and the tickle of her curls against his cheek makes him smile.

Watching her wake is a pleasure too, and when Mayfair blinks muzzily at him, Bilbo nudges his nose alongside hers, lips barely brushing. “Morning.”

“So it is,” she agrees and smothers a yawn that turns into giggles as he mirrors the action. “You look a fright.”

“And you look . . . wonderful,” Bilbo tells her. “Glorious.”

Mayfair laughs. “Me with my bog-breath and hair tangled up in a rat’s nest?”

“I’ve seen worse; ever dealt with dwarves at dawn? Not a charming sight,” he tells her, memory making him smile. 

Mayfair smiles too, and looks up at the sky. “Fair day today, but we’ll have rain by sunset,” she predicts. “I see sandy bottom clouds just on the edges of the sky. Doesn’t look like it will be too heavy.”

“Grateful for that, then.” Bilbo sighs, and clears his throat a little. Mostly to get her attention. “Mayfair,” he begins.

She arches an eyebrow. “No serious discussions before breakfast.”

“That’s the rule, is it?”

“Yes,” Mayfair assures him. “A good one too; weighty words go better on a full stomach. Do you fancy hotcakes?”

He does and says so; twenty minutes later Mayfair is skillfully pouring out batter onto the one skillet they’d brought, holding it over the revived fire. Bilbo finishes packing up the knapsacks and then comes to squat beside her, his gaze on the skillet, his words thoughtful. “Things are different now, sweetheart. We both know that.”

“They . . . don’t have to be,” Mayfair murmurs back just as carefully. “I meant what I said about not asking for anything more. You’ve given me so very much already and I’m grateful.”

“They’re different over and above because _we_ happened,” Bilbo points out firmly. “ _We_ happened and from where I stand it’s a good thing. Probably one of the best things _ever_ for me. And what I need to know is if that’s the same for you as well. If not, I won’t say another word about it and we can go on to Needlehole as,” he chokes a bit and regains his composure, “as friends, if that’s what you want.”

Mayfair gives a slow sigh and jerks the skillet up, flipping the hot cake with a deft motion before she speaks. “Three days. I’ve known you and you’ve known me for all of _three days,_ dear heart. Here in the Shire that’s nothing. Barely time at all. If we did this the way my father would want there would be _months_ of courting, and all that fuss about dowries, or lack of in my case, and negotiating what I bring and what I keep, and what the children will get, and under all that will be the gossip, oh yes, the gossip and across the fence talk about you marrying beneath you and me thinking myself better than folk by landing a rich man. I don’t care a badger’s arse for your money or your Hole, Bilbo Baggins, I really don’t. It would have been so much simpler if YOU had been the one to wash up on the shore because then I could love you just as I do without the fuss.”

This torrent of words hits Bilbo square in the chest; a bull’s-eye of frustration, longing, and uncertainty all ameliorated by the little afterthought confession tagged on the end. He cocks his head and looks at her but Mayfair refuses to meet Bilbo’s gaze so he reaches for the skillet handle, his palm wrapping around hers, big and warm.

“Four days,” he corrects gently. “Four, and I love you too. No, let me say _my_ piece,” Bilbo gives Mayfair a mock-stern glance, smiling at the end of it. “You’re right. About the fuss, that is. I know damned well how business goes around here, and despite everything doesn’t matter.” 

He squeezes her fingers and together they bring the skillet off the fire because even during a serious discussion Hobbits don’t waste food. “I’m eccentric, Mayfair. I’m the odd one, the one who went on an Adventure with dwarves to fight a dragon. If I choose to marry a girl from Needlehole it won’t surprise _anyone_ who’s heard of me.”

The laugh that bubbles out of Mayfair makes him grin, and she reaches two fingers to catch the edge of the hot cake, pulling it up and setting it on a plate. “And you’re sure of that?”

“I am, and what’s more, I . . . intend to.”

Mayfair jerks her glance to him, her pretty lips open. Bilbo deftly plucks a chunk of hotcake and tucks it into her mouth, smirking.


	8. Chapter 8

They linger, and by the time they are on the road it’s nearly mid-day. Mayfair knows her own reluctance stems from how wonderful this time with Bilbo has become. This little trip of necessity has now become a sweet journey for the pair of them, and she is loath to let it end.

Over and over she considers Bilbo’s words, feeling caught in a whirl of trepidation, shyness, alarm, delight, and frustration. How one mild-mannered Hobbit can manage to set such a tipsy tumult within her is a marvel, and in such a short time as well. _This must be how he took on an Adventure,_ she thinks. This streak of pragmatism bound with a thread of optimism.

As for herself, well it’s difficult not to entertain hope, but there are so many real-world complexities standing right at the gate of Needlehole, foremost of which will be her father of course. He’ll fuss about her and pump Bilbo’s hand and tell everyone in earshot about how grateful he is that such a prominent Hobbit has saved his little Mayfair . . . and after that there will be his keen-eyed assessment that makes her throat go a little tight with misery. She knows her father will be asking questions without asking them, his every stare and gesture demanding to know _if_ and _when_ and _what do you intend now, Mr. Baggins_ as they all have tea around the old kitchen table in the cramped little Hole in the dyke.

And she’ll be ashamed. Not only of what her father is implying—even if it’s, well, true a bit—but also of the shabby little place with the flour sack curtains and rag rug full of ember holes by the fireplace. Embarrassed by the smell of fish and the chipped dishes on the shelf; the whole of the house held together by stubborn pride above all. 

Her home is clean—or at least it was when Mayfair last saw it—but altogether the entire place is smaller than Bilbo’s potato cellar if it comes to that, and although it’s been a good home, it’s hardly the sort of place she wants him to see.

 _It’s one thing to tell a beloved that you’re poor, and quite another thing when they see it first-hand,_ Mayfair thinks. Especially with her father complicating matters.

She loves her father, she does. Mayfair knows he’s done his best in raising her and used to spend the first of every coin he earned to care for her, but over time matters have changed between them. She earns their keep over and above his management of the docks, and has for years now. Parson Lillyfoot is content to sit in the shade at the head of the town’s pier and collect the berth rent pennies as the fishermen come past. Mayfair is the one hauling nets and bringing home the catch, bundling it into barrows and haggling with the marketmen heading north to Hardbottle.

Mayfair has never had time to consider her life before; she did what was needed, what she was good at doing and tried not to want for the more that would never happen. Every lucky thing—a penny in the river, a hidden patch of strawberries on the bank—was eventually offset by a torn net, or a hole in her skirt. Life balances out, and there isn’t any point in yearning for the moon just because you can _see_ it, she thinks. 

And still, every time she looks over at Bilbo, something deep in her chest squeezes hard, making her blush. She catches herself studying his profile in the mild mid-day light, remembering how it felt to kiss his cheeks and chin. The flutter of a dangerous thought flashes through her mind: _our sons would look like him, I wager._

Very dangerous, and to drive it off, she turns her gaze towards the river. There is still a lot of debris from the storms, and the banks here are thick with downed branches. Mayfair recognizes boat planks too, and feels a chill at the sight, at the realization that Needlehole too, will probably be in disarray. Suddenly guilt rushes in like a chiding aunt, and Mayfair finds herself walking more quickly and swallowing hard.

“Yes?” Bilbo asks, making his stride match hers.

“The storm,” she manages. “Hard here too, I see.”

Bilbo looks towards the water and gives a nod. He reaches for her hand, gives it a squeeze and lets Mayfair set the pace. He doesn’t let go, and the steadying warmth comforts her as familiar landmarks begin to come into view a few hours later. They pass the Leaping Rock that juts out over the river and Mayfair tells Bilbo about how she used to swim there on hot summer days.

Old memories. Good ones. Now the road is hard-packed and wider; there is a signpost within view and Mayfair knows it well. She slows down and turns to Bilbo, drawing up her shoulders. “Nearly there now. We shall probably see Hawthorne Pie chasing his two goats ‘round the green, and we might even catch the last of the noonday market. And be ready; once your name goes out I expect most of Needlehole will know of it in an hour.”

“I shall mind my manners,” Bilbo assures her calmly, “truly I shall.”

“Your manners will be fine,” Mayfair sighs, “but _mine_ will probably need polish, especially after showing up in trousers. You know how people talk.”

“Yes,” Bilbo agrees in a wry tone. “Still, the main thing is that you’re back safely, and that ought to go a way towards smoothing matters over, yes?”

“Maybe,” Mayfair hedges. “It depends on how put out my father is.”

Twenty minutes later they stroll into the humble square of Needlehole, looking around cautiously around the storm debris. A few souls look back, eyeing them in return, making no move forward. Mayfair straightens a little and calls to one of them; a round young man with his arm around a billy goat.

“Oi Hawthorne!”

“Mayfair?” he bleats back, looking at her oddly. “Great bouncing bunnies! We thought you were dead too!”

“Well I’m not,” she informs him, and then his words catch up to her thoughts. “What do you mean, too?”

The young man swallows hard, his gaze shifting to Bilbo and back to Mayfair, and his grip around his goat tightens enough to make the animal bleat a protest. “Mayfair,” he begins, his voice more of a croak now. “It’s just that . . . well . . .”

An old woman, wizen and bent comes hobbling forward from near the town well, her gnarled fingers reaching out to Mayfair, her expression a twist of sympathy as she grips the girl’s hands. “Your father’s dead, child. Two nights ago when the south wall of the dyke crumbled in the storm.”

Mayfair blinks, and feels herself sway a bit, but the little hands in hers and the sudden strong hands on her shoulders keep her from falling down right there in the square.

*** 

Bilbo stays with her like a shadow, all through the rest of the day and into the night.

People have come and gone, offering sympathies, herding Mayfair to the Inn and pouring tea into her, telling her in hushed tones about how her father and two others—a pair of brothers called Ned and Nort Hartsdale—had died, caught in the malevolence of the storm’s dance. The villagers sit with her, making awkward promises and trying to assure her in ways that don’t matter because Mayfair is silent and bowed.

When folk ask about himself, Bilbo murmurs vaguely that he’s from Hobbiton, and could he please have another cuppa?

They refill his tea and forget him, leaving him to sit beside Mayfair quietly in the gloom of the Inn’s parlor.

He watches her, staying close.

The day shifts, and the rain that Mayfair predicted begins to fall, softly at first, and then with growing heaviness, making a soft susurration outside the door. It’s the hour just before supper, and everyone has gone, leaving Mayfair in Bilbo’s care. The Innkeeper, a dour hobbit with sideburns as bristly as an old ram is eyeing them, and Bilbo can read the man’s thoughts easily enough. _Girl’s got no money and no place to stay; how do I get her out of my establishment without looking heartless?_

After a few moments Bilbo pads over to him and speaks softly, his words measured and low. “Right. We need a room for tonight, and a cold meal from anywhere we can get it. Here’s enough for that and a bit more for yourself if you bring it along in the next hour.”

The innkeeper speaks gold quite nicely and accepts Bilbo’s coins quickly enough. “Right you are, sir. Bread, cheese, and quail good enough?”

“Yes, and wine if you have it. After the long walk and now this terrible news Mayfair needs a good rest before tomorrow, so I’d be grateful if she wasn’t disturbed.”

“Oh aye,” the innkeeper agrees. “The wife and I will see to it no one disturbs you tonight, Mister . . . ?” the statement trails into a slightly challenging question. Bilbo fishes out another pair of coins and presses them into the man’s palm.

“Baggins.”

Not waiting to see if the man recognizes the name or not, Bilbo turns and makes his way back to Mayfair, lifting her chin with one hand and forcing her to meet his eyes. “Mayfair, you need to lie down.”

She nods, weary with grief. Bilbo slips an arm around her and they both follow the innkeeper up the stairs to their room at the top of the landing.

It’s pleasant enough, but chilly, especially with the rain falling out beyond the shuttered windows, and the innkeeper lights the candles by the bed and along the sconces before slipping out again. Bilbo waits until the man’s heavy tread down the stairs fades before turning to Mayfair and pulling her into a hug.

She’s stiff and unyielding for a long moment, and then strength flows through her arms and they tighten around him, clinging desperately, ferociously. 

Bilbo holds her. He strokes her back and soothes Mayfair as his collar grows wet from her tears. After a long while, when her sobs have slowly died away into breathy hitches and her cheek is resting on his shoulder, Bilbo presses a kiss to her brow and whispers to her. “I’m sorry, love.”

“Me too,” she snuffles. “Oh Bilbo, he’s gone. He’s gone and I wasn’t here, and now I’ll never even be able to say good-bye!”

He soothes her as best he can, not able to counter her observation, but acknowledging it quietly and feeling empathy resounding through his chest. Grief; he knows about that, yes. It’s an insidious emotion, stealing up on a person in unguarded moments, striking pangs that echo through even the best of memories.

Right now, though, it’s huge and raw in Mayfair, full of guilt, pain and loss. Bilbo guides her over to the bed and makes her sit; he brings the washbasin and sponges her feet clean, moving purposefully. “Food’s coming. I know you’re not hungry but I want you to _promise_ me you’ll have four mouthfuls at least, all right?”

“Wh-what?” she murmurs, distracted by his words, by his touch. Bilbo towels her feet dry, dropping a quick kiss on one ankle before rising up again.

“Food. We’ve had nothing since elevenses on the road and you need to keep your strength up.”

“Not hungry,” she murmurs, flopping sideways in a face dive on the pillows. If circumstances weren’t so sad Bilbo would laugh. Instead he dumps the sandy water into the chamber pot and rinses out the washbasin, speaking softly.

“I want your promise. Four bites, that’s all, sweetheart. After that we’ll get some sleep.”

Tomorrow will be hard enough, Bilbo knows. Tomorrow Mayfair will have to face the ruins of her home, the scrutiny of the town and the aching reality of her losses. But for now and tonight, he can hold her through the darkness and give her what comfort she needs. What comfort _he_ needs in this strange, sad turn of events.

There’s a tap at the door and when Bilbo answers it the tray is outside in the hall. He carries it over to the nightstand and lets it sit there as he unpacks their knapsacks, hoping the scent of warm bread is as tempting to Mayfair as it is to him. She’s sitting up when Bilbo returns, and obediently takes a slice when he gives her one.

“Open up,” he orders her, and quick memories of just that morning, of popping a bit of breakfast into her smiling mouth flash through his mind. 

Simpler times only hours ago.

Mayfair chews absently, her gaze focused inward, her very stillness unnerving. Bilbo gives her a glass of wine and takes one himself, wincing a little at the tang of it; not one of the better vintages, but strong enough to help with sleep, surely. He speaks softly, reminding her to take another bite, and another one after that, getting food into her and washing it down.

He undresses Mayfair, who slowly helps, and when she’s down to her thinnest shift Bilbo moves to blow out the lights, returning to the bed in his nightshirt, climbing under the musty coverlet into the cold sheets. Mayfair slides into his arms with a soft sigh, and this time Bilbo feels her relax against him. She snuggles down and again deep in his chest comes that tender sensation that makes him want to flex his toes with joy.

 _Odd thing, love,_ Bilbo muses. Like grief it sneaks up on you, but it turns you around to step out of the shadows and face the sun.

Exhausted, they sleep in the warm nest they’ve made in each other’s arms.


	9. Chapter 9

In the hour before dawn, when the birds are first beginning to sing and the darkness begins to grudgingly give way to grey, comes the sort of plain quiet that holds no illusions. Mayfair wakes, and the rush of the last few days comes back to her in waves, each full of memory and emotion.

Loving Bilbo.

Coming back to Needlehole.

Her father’s death.

For a moment she lies there, aware of the weight of Bilbo’s arm around her waist under the covers. Mayfair takes a slow breath, drawing in air and with it, simple recognition.

She loves Bilbo.

She regrets coming back to Needlehole.

She grieves for her father.

Simple truths; facts without adornment or complications at this point, and Mayfair accepts them as The Way Things Are. Yesterday brought all of them into focus and now she knows it’s time to deal with them head-on. 

But lying here against the solid warmth of her love saps her resolve for the time being, and she presses back against him, grateful for his presence. The arm around her tightens, and the tickle of Bilbo’s lips against her neck makes Mayfair squeak a bit.

“Better?” he whispers in a comforting tone.

 

“Yes,” comes the easy reply. “Thanks to you.”

“I’m here,” Bilbo reminds her, and lightly kisses the side of her throat, “Right here.”

“Good,” Mayfair murmurs, and gives a deep sigh. For a long, quiet while they lay together, watching the room grow lighter as dawn unfolds. It’s peaceful, and to her way of thinking, almost sacred. This is when she would rise and go out to the boat; when the river would be a ribbon of smooth pewter, curling against the green of the land as the sun rises.

Mayfair realizes that she probably won’t ever do that again, won’t ever have the simple life of being Lillyroot’s stubborn girl. The door on her childhood has been closing by inches these last few years but now it’s truly closed, and it’s time to rise, wash her face, and do what needs doing.

Whatever that is.

“Bilbo,” Mayfair begins softly. “I suppose you’ll be needing to get back soon . . .”

“Not all as soon as today. Maybe not for a while,” comes his sleepy reply. 

“Is that so?” she rolls to face him, feeling exasperated and grateful all in one. 

“T’is,” Bilbo assures her, his eyes still closed even as his arm around her tightens. “How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

Mayfair takes stock of herself for a moment, giving his question due consideration before answering. “With you, safe. But I have no idea how matters will go once we leave this bed, Mr. Baggins and that’s a fact.”

“Then we’ll face today together, shall we?” 

These are the kindest words Mayfair has heard in ages, and she tightens her arms around him, pressing close and feeling gratitude flood her entire body. “Thank you,” she tells him in a whisper made hoarse with emotion.

“Shhhh,” he murmurs back, and holds her a while longer.

 

Breakfast is in the main room of the inn; porridge and sausage; both a bit burnt but decent enough to get down. Mayfair is aware of the innkeeper’s obsequious manner towards Bilbo and it makes her want to squirm. Three decades she’s lived here and she knows the only thing the old hobbit cares about is gold; who has it, and who’s willing to spend it. The thought both irritates and mortifies her.

“We aren’t staying here another night,” she tells Bilbo under her breath. “I won’t have you fawned over by someone just _in_ it for your money.”

“He’s a tradesman; many are like that,” Bilbo points out patiently. “And before we decide anything, we’d best see what’s left of your home, dear.”

Practical words. Mayfair nods grudgingly. They finish and head out; she leads the way towards the river, moving along the familiar path. Steeling herself, Mayfair rounds the bend by the big gnarled willow and looks towards the earthen dyke that housed the three Holes just under the dock.

She draws in a shuddery breath, a wash of pain rising through her. The earthworks have crumbled at the arches of each of the doorways, leaving nothing but thick mud encasing visible remains of household goods strewn through and around them. Mayfair sees bedposts rising out of the thick brown goo, along with chair backs, broken table sections and scraps of gaudy cloth waving in the faint breeze coming down from the water. The back part of the dyke has been shored up with planks and stones; desperate work by the look of it, but the structure is holding back the water now and dimly Mayfair knows there will be folk working on it today.

She wanders down, heedless of the knee-deep mud, and picks her way through the debris, stunned into silence by the sight. Absently Mayfair reaches for a small stoneware pitcher that has survived, and pulls it free of the sludge; it makes a slurping sound as it leaves the bed of wet dirt.

“I won this at the mid-summer fair,” she murmurs, as much to herself as the figure behind her. “At the fish toss game. Anabell Diggins wanted it and offered to buy it off me but we _needed_ a pitcher so I said no. It’s got lovely bluebells painted on the sides, just under all this muck.”

“Mayfair,” comes the soft voice, but she shakes her head and hands the pitcher over her shoulder.

“No, it’s all right. I need to _see_. I need to _know_ what can be . . . saved.”

And she does, Mayfair admits to herself. It’s important. It’s what her father would have urged her to do.

So she does it.

It doesn’t take long to squelch through the wreckage, and yet there are little triumphs through it all. Her knickknack box, carved of soapstone; one of her father’s kerchiefs, safe in a basket in the weeds, a set of wooden spoons jutting out at jaunty angles from the mire. Mayfair collects them and passes them to Bilbo, who holds all.

There are other items she leaves, the broken things and the property of her neighbors who either haven’t come to collect them or have abandoned them. Mayfair isn’t sure which and doesn’t really care at this point. She wanders back to Bilbo, who has his arms full and for the first time Mayfair manages a smile. 

“Don’t _you_ look like a peddler,” she snickers, “bringing your wares to town.”

He simply returns the smile and waits for her to lead the way out of the mire. Carefully they pile the salvage on the high side of the path, and Bilbo reaches for her hand. Mayfair feels the grip even as she looks back towards the three empty doorways standing forlornly in the bright morning light.

Her tears are silent as the two of them make their way back to the village green, but once there she wipes them away with her free hand, and looks to Bilbo. “They’ll have to fill in that whole section now; they’ll be no more Holes in the earthworks around here.”

“Probably safer,” he points out with gentleness.

“True, but it was wonderfully cool in the summer, and the whisper of the water was the sweetest lullaby in the night,” Mayfair replies. “I’m sorry you never got to see it on the inside. Nothing compared to your own home, but nice enough for Needlehole.”

“I know it was,” Bilbo squeezes her fingers, “and I know you loved it very much.”

Mayfair lets the warmth of his words wash over her and gives him a watery smile. “That’s you, always knowing the _right_ thing to say, sweetheart.”

*** *** *** 

The sheriff of Needlehole is Tobias Bolger, a stout rain barrel of a Hobbit with gingery sideburns and a potato of a nose. Bilbo can see he’s reluctant to come to the point. Having seen the remains of Mayfair’s home, it’s easy to guess the upcoming matters of discussion, so Bilbo makes it a point to sit at Mayfair’s side, and give her his quiet support as the three of them linger around a table on the green in the noonday sun.

“Mayfair, lass,” Bolger begins in a bullfrog’s croak of a voice. “I’m sorry for what you’ve come home to and that’s a fact. Your father was a damned fine soul and we’re _all_ grieving him now, along with the Hartsdale boys. You need to know that you’re not alone in this hard, hard time.”

Bilbo watches as the man takes Mayfair’s hands into his, engulfing them in his huge grip. A prickle of annoyance rises up inside, and it takes Bilbo a moment to realize why. He grits his teeth and tries to keep his expression calm. It helps to sense that Mayfair is no happier with Bolger’s grip.

“That being said though, we need to talk plainly girl. You’ve seen what’s left and being one of us you _know_ we need to shore up and fill in those Holes. Can’t have the river pooling through Needlehole, changing our little village, now can we? Storm’s done enough damage as it is, and there are bound to be more of them coming in the future.”

“Yes,” Mayfair tells him. “I’ve seen the shore-works already, Mister Bolger, and I agree. You’ll get no argument from me.”

Bilbo sees that this surprises the sheriff, who blinks a little at Mayfair’s agreement and still has not let go of her hands. He wonders if it’s because the man is afraid of angering her, of her hitting him for some reason. Bilbo leans forward, alert now.

“Ah, that’s good. That’s good then,” Bolger murmurs. “Glad you see the sense of it, lass. But it does pose a problem for us. The Hartsdales are gone, bless their souls, so there’s no need to worry about them, and Sairy Diggle’s family have moved in with her cousin Hawthorne but _you,_ child . . . well we need to find a place for _you._ ”

There’s a delicate pause as all three of them consider that, and Bilbo, who’s learned the hard way to see beyond just the expression of a face sees what Tobias Bolger isn’t saying aloud. _We need to find someone to take you, Mayfair, because you’re a charity case now and an unmarried girl as well. You haven’t a penny to your name, nor are you likely to, and in a little place like Needlehole you’re a burden._

Now the hand-holding makes sense, and Bilbo sees Mayfair’s back stiffen, sees her struggle to pull her fingers from Bolger’s grip on them. He reaches over and in one quick movement pries the sheriff’s clasp from Mayfair’s, taking one of her hands in his own. It’s done so swiftly that neither Mayfair nor Bolger has a chance to fight it, and once done, Bilbo smiles at the pair of them.

“I think Mayfair needs more time to consider her future,” Bilbo interjects smoothly. “There’s no need to rush, Mister Bolger now is there? You’ve got your hands full already with taking care of the village, and she’s still in mourning, eh?”

Bolger stares at him as if seeing Bilbo for the first time and it’s entirely possible that _is_ the case. Bilbo returns the gaze with a firm smile even as his hand squeezes Mayfair’s in warning. Wisely she says nothing.

“Er, yes, I suppose that’s true, very true. And what was your name again, sir?”

“Baggins, from Hobbiton way,” he offers quietly, watching the other man’s face. Bolger’s expression shifts slightly; a dim recognition of the name.

“Baggins, Baggins. One of them what’s related to that _mad_ one?” Bolger inquires. “The fool that went off to fight a dragon?”

“I know him well,” Bilbo nods, squeezing Mayfair’s hand again. From her little snort he knows she’s trying not to laugh.

“Well _you_ look a sensible sort anyway,” Bolger sighs. “And folk ‘round here say you’re keeping an eye out on our Mayfair, so that’s all right then. Just—keep in mind, lass that this discussion isn’t quite over yet. We’ll see if anyone needs a servant or maid. The inn might be able to hire you on.”

Bolger rises with effort, looking from Bilbo to Mayfair and gives a shake of his head. “We laid your father under the willow at the rest; I hope you approve.”

Mayfair starts; nods. “Yes. The willow is . . . perfect for him. Thank you, Mister Bolger.” They sit in silence as the sheriff lumbers away, and when he is out of earshot they both begin speaking, words overlapping in haste.

“—SHAN’T be a slops-toting maid, especially for that ruffle-faced money-grubbing git of an innkeeper!”

“—your _temper_ , Mayfair. He means well even if he’s less than tactful about it. And he’s right; you need to think about what comes next,” Bilbo murmured. He rises and pulls her to her feet. “So what do you want to do now?”

She looks mutinous and even in that, so beautiful that he aches to kiss here, right here on the green, but Bilbo is aware of how many eyes are watching them, so he contents himself with a pat on her arm as he waits for a reply.

“I suppose . . . we should see the grave,” Mayfair sighs, the anger leaking out of her. She points with her chin to a direction further up the river. “That way.”

They make their way along the indicated path, leaving the village proper and winding their way through a more marshy section of land. Bilbo watches Mayfair’s back as she leads the way, and he can tell by the very set of her shoulders that she’s struggling. Not with the path, which is easy, but with the sheriff’s words. He keeps silent, knowing that _nothing_ he could say right now would be the right thing.

This is wisdom, gleaned through bitter, bitter experience, and Bilbo stays close, wanting to do what he can, and waiting for the time when it can be done.

The path turns and the ground levels out to reveal a glade with tall trees here and there; Needlehole’s ground of final rest. Each tree will have graves ringing it, like spokes on a wheel, nurturing the land and returning to the soil all that has been brought forth from it. He bows his head and waits as Mayfair makes her way to a large, gnarled willow standing proudly in a low-lying section of the glade. There is a fresh grave there and already small blades of fresh young grass are beginning to poke up through the damp earth.

Mayfair moves to the tree and rests a hand on it. Bilbo stays where he is, giving her time to herself, but the glade is so quiet he can hear her words across it. “Hello Father.”

He closes his eyes, trying not to listen.

“I’m back. I would say I’m home, but there isn’t one now, not really. I suppose you’d know that. I’m . . . sorry, Father . . . so very sorry . . .”

Mayfair’s words fade as her voice drops to a sob, and Bilbo squeezes his own eyes tightly, aware that he himself is crying too. He knows the pain is partially hers and partially his own; remembered hurt rising up and echoing through the many losses in the years of his own life. Bilbo’s head drops and he wipes his cheeks, idly wondering why he _never_ remembers to bring a handkerchief as he tries to stay still and let time pass.

And time does pass. How much, he can’t say, but later comes, and he takes a breath, ready to move on.

Risking a look over his shoulder, Bilbo sees that by now Mayfair is on her knees, talking to the grave through her fading sniffles, her dark curls glossy in the sunlight. She’s quieter now, patting the dirt gently, smoothing it like . . . well, like a blanket. When it’s to her satisfaction, Bilbo sees her press a palm down and lower her head, passing a last whisper before straightening herself and rising slowly.

Now is when he knows he can help, and Bilbo moves to her, takes her arm to steady her. Mayfair blinks up at him, eyes red but calm, a small smile warming him. So much said in that, so much shared without a word as he slips his arm around her and pulls her close.

They stay that way for another while, comfortable and quiet.

Finally Mayfair looks up and gives a great shuddery sigh. “All right then, Mr. Baggins. What would you suggest I do now?”

Bilbo feels his heart _hatch_ in his chest, the cracking of his old world falling away like the eggshell of a phoenix. He catches her face in his two hands, aware of Mayfair’s damp cheeks against his palms, and the warm green scent of the river close by. He holds her gaze.

“You should marry me, Mayfair Orrins Lillyroot,” Bilbo tells her steadily. “Please.”


	10. Chapter 10

She’s expected it, but the shock of the words still jolts her, still makes her blink hard. Carefully Mayfair looks at him and sees his earnest gaze, the nervous flick of his tongue across his bottom lip. “Yes? Then tell me why, Mister Baggins.” Her tone is soft, serious; she isn’t teasing or angry now. She wants to know why.

“Many reasons, many _many_ reasons,” Bilbo replies quickly. “First of all, we love each other. That’s fact, that is. Established.”

“True,” Mayfair admits. “That’s one.”

“To my way of thinking it should be the _only_ one, but there _are_ others,” Bilbo murmurs, still holding her close. “Another reason you should marry me is that we’ll pine away of loneliness without each other. If I head back to Hobbiton without you, the two of us wouldn’t last a week. At least, I know I wouldn’t. I’d be worrying about how you were doing, and missing you terribly and wondering if you’d been locked up for assaulting the sheriff yet . . .”

She fights a giggle, and settles for making a face at Bilbo. “I would never!”

“You would,” he replies firmly. “He had you by the hands for a _reason_ , sweetheart.”

Mayfair pouts a moment, and then concedes with a sigh. “Very likely. I may have mentioned that most folk know about my . . . temper.”

“Yes, which is another good reason for marrying me,” Bilbo points out. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“Say that again,” Mayfair challenges, looking serious for a moment. “You haven’t seen me at my worst, love—I’m loud and rude and short-tempered; I sometimes . . . sometimes even . . . _curse_ ,” she confesses, her face going hot now. It’s true, and to anyone else she might brazenly shrug it off, but this is the hobbit she loves and he deserves to know the truth.

“I’ve traveled with _dwarves_ ,” Bilbo counters, “ _and_ a wizard, who muttered some truly shocking things under his beard. I’ve heard orcs and trolls and goblins curse so I don’t think there’s anything you could say that would actually scandalize me at this point. In fact, I’ve even been known to let fly with a naughty word or two myself.”

His sincerity makes her laugh, and Mayfair looks into Bilbo’s face, finding herself caught up in his sweet gaze. “No!”

“Yes,” he nods solemnly, but his eyes are twinkling. “I’ve got a bit of a reputation too, as you _may_ have noticed.”

“I don’t care what anyone else thinks, you’re wonderful!” Mayfair interjects, linking her arm with his and leading him out of the glade. “You’re kind and smart and always know just what to say and do; you’re ever so patient—”

“Yet more reasons to marry me,” Bilbo nods, but his voice is light. “I won’t tell you I’m perfect because I’m not, Mayfair. I’m particular about certain things and I have nightmares sometimes and most folk consider me that local eccentric, _which_ I probably deserve, but I love you very much. I was fully prepared to ask your father for your hand once we got here. Since I can’t very well do that, I’m asking _you_. I know it’s quick, but more than that, I know it’s _right_ , love.”

They head down the path back towards the village green, and Mayfair muses over his words as they do so.

“So this isn’t a matter of you feeling sorry for me?” she asks, shooting him a sidelong glance. “Because that’s the first thing folk will think, you understand. Might even be a few who’ll try to talk you out of it.”

“I have never felt sorry for you,” Bilbo murmurs. “I’ve grieved for the losses you’ve suffered, sweetheart, but I’ve never pitied you, not even when you washed up outside my home and certainly not now. You’re too strong to pity.”

Mayfair takes a breath, whirls and kisses him quickly. “ _That_ settles it then. Yes. If you’ll have me, I’ll marry you, Bilbo Baggins.” 

Any doubts she harbors vanish when he scoops her into his arms, and lifting her, spins them both. A giddy moment made all the sweeter for the kiss it ends with and the look in Bilbo’s eyes.

“And _that_ is the answer I’d hoped for. Come on; let’s get started!”

“Now?”

“ _Now_ , before you start listening to anyone else and get second thoughts,” he tells her firmly. “I know the way a village works and so do you. It’s barely after lunch so we should be able to find the sheriff and see about having him officiate. I’ve got enough coins left to host a nice supper for anyone you want to invite as well.”

“Well!” Mayfair laughs, “When you decide a thing you don’t stand idle, _do_ you, Mister Baggins?”

“Times ago, it took me ages to decide a thing, and I learned that if I let too _much_ time pass then the choice wouldn’t be mine anymore,” Bilbo tells her. “I’ve found I _like_ making decisions for myself, Miss Lillyroot. Life—real life—is all about them.”

Mayfair takes this in, savoring it for the sweet truth it is. She’s faced a morning of decisions and while some of them were difficult, she’s glad to have had the chance to choose what to save. Now comes the choice of who to say goodbye to, and that will also be both difficult and good.

“What about _your_ people?” she asks when they reach the green. Hawthorne and his goats are under the big tree, all of them snoring. “Surely you’ve got family you’d want to invite.”

The face he pulls makes her laugh. “Oh I think not. This is one of the happiest days of my life; no need to ruin it by bringing _them_ into it. Time enough to deal with cousin Lobelia and her brood later, once we’re back home.”

Mayfair looks at him doubtfully, but Bilbo takes her hands and gives her a warm smile. “Trust me on this, love. I was alone before you came along, and the only person I truly want at my wedding is _you_.”

“Thank you,” she responds, still a little dazed, and bursts into giggles.

Fortunately Bilbo seems to understand her giddiness and squeezes her fingers.

*** 

Tobias Bolger agrees to marry them, not bothering to hide the relief in his expression when they make their request. He asks Bilbo a few questions for the look of the thing, carefully listening to family names and firm answers, nodding all the while. When matters are laid out to his satisfaction, he asks for a moment alone with Mayfair.

She’s been expecting this, and while Bilbo goes off to the inn to make arrangements, she looks at Bolger, fighting hard to keep her expression neutral. For his part, he cocks his heavy head and eyes her from head to toe.

“He loves you, that’s easy to see, Mayfair. Anyone with half an eye can tell that,” Bolger begins. “But he’s a stranger too, and you’re one of our _own_ , lass. Tell me the truth; do you love him as well?”

“Yes.” It comes with no hesitation at all, and Mayfair feels surprise that it’s so easy and natural to admit it aloud to someone else.

“I thought so, but I wanted to be sure,” Bolger nods. “Still, no er, _need_ to rush, is there?”

It’s on the tip of her tongue to snap at the sheriff, to give into her temper and tell him off the way she might have a few weeks ago, but Mayfair catches herself, suppressing a sigh. She’s changed, she realizes. What mattered then doesn’t matter nearly as much now.

“No, Mister Bolger, there isn’t a hurry, but since he and I will be leaving for Hobbiton soon, we thought it would be nice to have the wedding here so I could say my goodbyes to everyone. I know the Water flows all through the shire, but I _am_ a Needlehole girl, sir, and I shan’t forget it.”

The sheriff gives a murmur of approval and looks in the direction of the river; Mayfair can see how grey his hair is, and how deeply carved the lines are at the corners of his eyes. “That you are and no mistake, lass. I know your father, rest his soul would be proud to hear you say that. All right then, we’ll bind you to your sweetheart mid-afternoon then, eh?”

*** *** ***

News of the wedding becomes common knowledge within an hour and Bilbo is congratulated, patted on the shoulder, cheered and taken aside every few minutes. It would be disorienting to anyone else, but he’s learned the hard way about keeping his wits about him, and in any case he knows perfectly well about the social niceties of a small community. He accepts the congratulations and listens carefully to the advice, but when it comes to the warnings he shakes his head ruefully.

“No, no, I understand you mean well, but Mayfair’s the girl for me,” he tells the pinch-faced woman in the hideous green and orange dress. “I know she’s a bit of a handful and has a temper, but my heart’s made its choice and that’s all there is to it.”

“Are you absolutely sure? She hasn’t a ha’penny to her name, and everyone knows that Lillyroots are . . . well . . . pushy,” the woman counters, pursing her lips. “You’d be better off marrying one of the Diggles, young man. Good hips for babies and heads clear of any fanciful notions. My niece Petal would be such a darling match—” the woman persists, looking around furtively as they stand at the bar of the inn.

“I’m sure she would, but not for me,” Bilbo sighs. “I’m promised to my Mayfair. Still, I hope you’ll come to the picnic.”

The woman looks torn as well she might; thwarted matchmaking versus what promises to be an excellent spread play out in her shifting expressions. Bilbo tips the scale by adding, “And I’m having both wine and ale served up in memory of Mr. Lillyroot _and_ the Hartsdale lads.”

She nods, giving him a sharp look. “A kind gesture, lad, and one I approve of. Well, if you know your own mind, I suppose I can be there to witness and wish you two well.”

Needlehole bustles, and Bilbo feels a sense of lightness in the air. These folk need this, he realizes. A celebration will help them move forward, and give them a chance to bid farewell not only to Mayfair, but to the dead as well. It might seem macabre to some, but on the whole Hobbits can blend the sentimental with the practical and often do. 

He considers a ring. Thoughts of the One back at Bag End trouble him for a moment, but Bilbo shakes them off. _That_ One will stay hidden, he decides. The magic in it is . . . troubling, and although it’s been useful at times, there’s no love within its gleam, no compassion reflected on its gold surface. 

A ring like that would poison a person if worn full-time, Bilbo thinks.

Still, when he mentions his dilemma, the innkeeper offers a solution.

“Years back a customer paid me with a silver fish hook,” he tells Bilbo. “Pretty thing, too valuable to actually use in the water. I’ll sell it to you for half its worth and Enoch over at the stable can hammer it into a ring for you. I daresay Mayfair might even appreciate having a little reminder of her years on the river.”

It’s an excellent suggestion and Bilbo takes the man up on his offer, feeling almost smug about it, pocketing the finished product later. Already the village green has tables and chairs out, and bunches of wildflowers everywhere. It’s surprising how much is getting done for so little currency, he thinks, but then again, Needlehole _is_ a small place.

By the time the hour has come, Bilbo is ready; mentally settled into this lovely change-to-be of his life. He’s in his second-best shirt and a jacket borrowed from someone, and although he’s given his hair a good brushing it still has a tousled look not helped by a cheery breeze coming from the direction of the Water. Deep in one pocket is the ring, its hook looped through its eye and welded shut. Bilbo promises himself he’ll have something nice put into the curve of the closure—maybe an agate or a bit of pearl—once they get back home.

Home. Never has the word sounded so dear, he thinks, and goes to stand under the tree on the green.

Soon Mayfair comes out from the Inn, flowers in her dark hair and all through her borrowed blue dress. Bilbo shifts a little at the sight of her, fighting the urge to bounce over before she’s properly headed his way, and he knows he’s grinning broadly. She looks beautiful and scared, so Bilbo keeps his gaze on her as he nods, his chest tight. People gather, making a lane and following behind Mayfair as she moves towards him, and when she finally reaches him, a cheer goes up.

The whole village—all thirty folk, dogs and babies included—are gathered around them. Bilbo barely sees them. Keeping his voice low he murmurs, “You look a treat, sweetheart.”

“They’re all here,” Mayfair splutters back. “ _All_ of them, even the Diggles!”

“Support,” he offers, and she shoots back a saucy look that’s much more like the Mayfair he knows and loves.

“ _Proof_ , more like. Still . . .” she smiles and takes the hand he holds out to her, and her fingers are warm around his.

Tobias Bolger is there, looking tidier himself, and when he clears his throat in a loud, authoritative rumble everyone quiets down immediately. Bilbo turns to him, as does Mayfair, and it’s time.

 

Afterwards they both sign their names on the village records scroll, and Bolger has Hawthorne make a copy for them to carry back with them. Mayfair keeps touching her ring, her eyes damp. Bilbo feels a little shaky himself, but it’s because he feels so full of joy and relief. Strangers keep hugging him, and he doesn’t let go of his wife’s hand— _his wife!_ —as they talk to everyone who comes up to congratulate them.

Someone starts playing something lively on a fiddle and then there’s dancing on the green; dancing which includes the dogs and goats and babies apparently. Ale flows, food comes out from kitchens to be set on the tables and devoured by everyone, and in the middle of it all Bilbo stands with Mayfair, amused, happy and just a little bit apart from the bustle. She slips an arm around his back and leans against him to whisper. “I didn’t know how good this would be for them.”

Bilbo nods, whispering back. “Yes, I can see it. And you _do_ feel good making them happy, sweetheart. Giving them a reason to look forward after the storm.”

“Yes,” she confesses, face pink. “For all the pettiness and grief and irritations, this village has a lot of heart too. Sometimes I forget that.”

This makes him swallow hard, and Bilbo thinks of his own home and all the folk there who have made it dear to him over the years. He presses a kiss to Mayfair’s temple and tells her, “We can always come back to visit, you know.”

She blinks at him, smiling. “Thank you.” 

They sit at one of the tables and accept toasts. It seems nearly everyone in Needlehole has a story to tell about Parson or Mayfair, most of them funny, and when the sweet blue twilight stretches over the sky, Bilbo knows he and his beloved have done right by this little village. They help to clean up (and are lovingly scolded for it by some of the matriarchs) and then make their way to the inn to collect their belongings.

And that is how their first night of matrimony ends up spent in a bedroll alongside a small campfire along the banks of the Water.


End file.
